UNIVERSITY  OF  CA  RIVERS  DE.  L  BRARY 


3  1210018386829 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


cm<n^t  ^vu, 


<&6>fe_ 

Ot^'l^ 


SONGS  OF  SUMMER  LANDS 


SONGS    OF   SUMMER 


LAN  DS 


By  <JOHQUIN  MILLER, 

>  >) 

AUTHOR   OF    "  SONGS   OF   THE   SIERRAS   AND    SUNLANDS, 
ETC.,   ETC. 


where  the  sun  and  the  moon  lay  down  together  and  brought  iorth 
the  stars. 


CHICAGO 

MORRILL,   HlGGINS    &    Co. 

1892. 


COPYRIGHT, 

MOHRILL,  HIGGINS  &  CO., 

1892. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Songs  of  Summer  Lands 9 

Sea  of  Fire  (The) 13 

Rhyme  of  the  Great  River  (The),  Part  1 60 

Rhyme  of  the  Great  River,  (The),  Part  II 94 

Isles  of  the  Amazons 131 

Ideal  and  the  Real  (The) 199 

A  Dove  of  St.  Mark 224 

II  Capucin 239 

Sunrise  in  Venice 242 

A  Garibaldian's  Story 244 

Sirocco 250 

Como. . .                                                                          .  251 


SONGS   OF  SUMMER   LANDS. 


/"TV  that  far  land,  farther  than  Yucatan, 

Hondurian  height,  or  Mahogany  steep, 
WJicre  the  great  sea,  hollowed  by  the  hand  of  man, 

Hears  deep  come  calling  across  to  deep  ; 
/  V/iere  tJic  great  seas  follozv  in  the  grooves  of  men 
Down  under  the  bastions  of  Daricn  : 


In  tJiat  land  so  far  that  you  wonder  whether 

If  God  woiddknow  it  should  you  fall  dow)i  dead, 

In  tliat  land  so  far  through  the  wilds  and  ^Meather 
That  the  lost  sun  sinks  like  a  warrior  sped, — 

/  Vhcrc  the  sea  and  t/te  sky  scent  closing  together, 
Seem  closing  together  as  a  book  that  is  read: 


10  SONGS  OF  SUMMER   LANDS. 

In  that  nude,  warm  world,   where    the    unnamed 
rivers     ' 

Roll  restless  in  cradles  of  bright  buried  gold; 
Where  white 'flashing mountains  flow  rivers  of  silver, 

As  a  rock  of  the  desert  flowed  fountains  of  old; 
By  a  dark,  wooded  river  that  calls  to  the  dawn, 
And  calls  all  day  with  his  dolorous  swan: 


In  that  land  of  the  wonderful  sun  and  weather, 
With  green  under  foot  and  'cvith  gold  ovet  head, 

Where  the  spent  sun  flames,  and  you  wonder  whether 
'Tis  an  isle  of  fire  in  his  foamy  bed: 

Where  the  oceans  of  earth  shall  be  welded  together 
By  the  great  French  master  in  his  forge  flame 
red, — 


Lo!  the    half -finished    world!      Yon  footfall    re- 
treating,— 

//  might  be  the  Maker  disturbed  at  his  task. 
But  the  footfall  of  God,  or  the  far  pheasant  beating, 

It  is  one  and  the  same,  whatever  the  mask 
It  may  wear  unto  man'.     The  ivoods  keep  repeating 

The  old  sacred  sermons,  whatever  you  ask. 


SONGS   OF   SUMMER   LANDS.  II 

//  is  man  in  his  garden,  scarce  wakened  as  yet 
From  the  sleep  that  fell  on  him  when  ivoman  was 

made. 

The  new-finished  garden  is  plastic  and  wet 
From  the  hand  that  has  fashioned  its  unpeopled 

shade  ; 
And  the  wonder  still  looks  from  the  fair  ^vomaris 

eyes 
As    she     shines    through    the  wood  like  the  light 

from  t/ie  skies. 

And  a  ship  now  and  then  from  some  far  OpJiirs 

shore 

Draws  in  from  the  sea.     It  lies  close  to  the  bank  ; 
Tlien  a  dull,  muffled  sound  of  the  slow  shuffled 

plank 
As  they  load  the  black  ship ;  but  you  hear  nothing 

more, 
And  the  dark,  dewy  vines, and  the  tall,  sombre 

wood 
Like  twilight  droop  over  the  deep,  sweeping  flood. 

The  black  masts  are  tangled  with  branches  tJiat  cross, 
The  rich,  fragrant  gums  fall  from  branches  to 
deck, 


12 


SONGS    OF   SUMMER    LANDS. 


The  thin  ropes  arc  swinging  with  streamers  of  moss 
That  mantle  all  things  like  the  shreds  of  a  vvreck  ; 
The  long  mosses  swing,  there  is  never  a  breath  : 
The  river  rolls  still  as  the  river  of  death. 


THE    SEA   OF    FIRE.  13 


THE   SEA   OF   FIRE. 


IN  the  beginning, — ay,  before 
The  six-days'  labors  were  well  o'er; 
Yea,  while  the  world  lay  incomplete, 
Ere  God  had  opened  quite  the  door 
Of  this  strange  land  for  strong  men's  feet,— 
There  lay  against  that  westmost  sea 
One  weird-wild  land  of  mystery. 

A  far  white  wall,  like  fallen  moon, 

Girt  out  the  world.     The  forest  lay 

So  deep  you  scarcely  saw  the  day, 

Save  in  the  high-held  middle  noon: 

It  lay  a  land  of  sleep  and  dreams, 

And    clouds    drew    through    like    shoreless 

streams 
That  stretch  to  where  no  man  may  say. 


14  THE    SEA   OF    FIRE. 

Men  reached  it  only  from  the  sea, 

By  black-built  ships,  that  seemed  to  creep 

Along  the  shore  suspiciously, 

Like  unnamed  monsters  of  the  deep. 

It  was  the  weirdest  land,  I  ween, 

That  mortal  eye  has  ever  seen: 

A  dim,  dark  land  of  bird  and  beast, 
Black  shaggy  beasts  with  cloven  claw, — 
A  land  that  scarce  knew  prayer  or  priest, 
Or  law  of  man,  or  Nature's  law; 
Where  no  fixed  line  drew  sharp  dispute 
Twixt  savage  man  and  silent  brute. 


ii. 


It  hath  a  history  most  fit 

For  cunning  hand  to  fashion  on; 

No  chronicler  hath  mentioned  it; 

No  buccaneer  set  foot  upon. 

Tis  of  an  outlawed  Spanish  Don,— 

A  cruel  man,  with  pirate's  gold 

That  loaded  down  his  deep  ship's  hold. 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE.  I  5 

A  deep  ship's  hold  of  plundered  gold! 
The  golden  cruise,  the  golden  cross, 
From  many  a  church  of  Mexico, 
From  Panama's  mad  overthrow, 
From  many  a  ransomed  city's  loss, 
From  many  a  follower  stanch  and  bold, 
And  many  a  foeman  stark  and  cold. 

He  found  this  wild,  lost  land.     He  drew 
His  ship  to  shore.     His  ruthless  crew, 
Like  Romulus,  laid  lawless  hand 
On  meek  brown  maidens  of  the  land, 
And  in  their  bloody  forays  bore 
Red  firebrands  along  the  shore. 


in. 


The  red  men  rose  at  night.     They  came, 
A  firm,  unflinching  wall  of  flame; 
They  swept,  as  sweeps  some  fateful  sea 
O'er  land  of  sand  and  level  shore 
That  howls  in  far,  fierce  agony. 
The  red  men  swept  that  deep,  dark  shore 
As  threshers  sweep  a  threshing  floor. 


l6  THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 

And  yet  beside  the  slain  Don's  door 
They  left  his  daughter,  as  they  fled: 
They  spared  her  life  because  she  bore 
Their  Chieftain's  blood  and  name.     The  red 
And  blood-stained  hidden  hoards  of  gold 
They  hollowed  from  the  stout  ship's  hold, 
And  bore  in  many  a  slim  canoe — 
To  where?  The  good  priest  only  knew. 


IV. 


The  course  of  life  is  like  the  sea; 
Men  come  and  go;  tides  rise  and  fall; 
And  that  is  all  of  history. 
The  tide  flows  in,  flows  out  to-day — 
And  that  is  all  that  man  may  say; 
Man  is,  man  was, — and  that  is  all. 

Revenge  at  last  came  like  a  tide, — 
'T  was  sweeping  deep  and  terrible; 
The  Christian  found  the  land,  and  came 
To  take  possession  in  Christ's  name. 
For  every  white  man  tha  thad  died 
I  think  a  thousand  red  men  fell, — 


THE    SEA   OF    FIRE. 


A  Christian  custom;  and  the  land 
Lay  lifeless  as  some  burned-out  brand. 


v. 


Ere  while  the  slain  Don's  daughter  grew 
A  glorious  thing,  a  flower  of  spring, 
A  lithe  slim  reed,  a  sun-loved  weed, 
A  something  more  than  mortal  knew; 
A  mystery  of  grace  and  face, — 
A  silent  mystery  that  stood 
An  empress  in  that  sea-set  wood, 
Supreme,  imperial  in  her  place. 

It  might  have  been  men's  lust  for  gold, — 
For  all  men  knew  that  lawless  crew 
Left  hoards  of  gold  in  that  ship's  hold, 
That  drew  ships  hence,  and  silent  drew 
Strange  Jasons  to  that  steep  wood  shore, 
As  if  to  seek  that  hidden  store, — 
I  never  either  cared  or  knew. 

I  say  it  might  have  been  this  gold 
That  ever  drew  and  strangely  drew 


l8  THE    SEA   OF    FIRE. 

Strong  men  of  land,  strange  men  of  sea, 
To  seek  this  shore  of  mystery 
With  all  its  wondrous  tales  untold; 
The  gold  or  her,  which  of  the  two? 
It  matters  not;  I  never  knew. 

But  this  I  know,  that  as  for  me, 

Between  that  face  and  the  hard  fate 

That  kept  me  ever  from  my  own, 

As  some  wronged  monarch  from  his  thront, 

God's  heaped-up  gold  of  land  or  sea 

Had  never  weighed  one  feather's  weight. 

Her  home  was  on  the  wooded  height, — 

A  woody  home,  a  priest  at  prayer, 

A  perfume  in  the  fervid  air, 

And  angels  watching  her  at  night. 

I  can  but  think  upon  the  skies 

That  bound  that  other  Paradise. 


VI. 

Below  a  star-built  arch,  as  grand 
As  ever  bended  heaven  spanned; 


THE   SEA   OF    FIRE. 

Tall  trees  like  mighty  columns  grew — 
They  loomed  as  if  to  pierce  the  blue, 
They  reached  as  reaching  heaven  through. 

The  shadowed  stream  rolled  far  below, 
Where  men  moved  noiseless  to  and  fro 
As  in  some  vast  cathedral,  when 
The  calm  of  prayer  conies  to  men, 
With  benedictions,  bending  low. 

Lo!  wooded  sea-banks,  wild  and  steep! 
A  trackless  wood;  a  snowy  cone 
That  lifted  from  this  wood  alone! 
This  wild,  wide  river,  dark  and  deep! 
A  ship  against  the  shore  asleep! 


VII. 

An  Indian  woman  crept,  a  crone, 
Hard  by  about  the  land  alone, 
The  relic  of  her  perished  race. 
She  wore  rich,  rudely-fashioned  bands 
Of  gold  above  her  bony  hands: 
She  hissed  hot  curses  on  the  place! 


2O  THE    SEA   OF    FIRE. 

VIII. 

Go  seek  the  red  man's  last  retreat! 

A  lonesome  land,  the  haunted  lands! 

Red  mouths  of  beasts,  red  men's  red  hands: 

Red  prophet-priest,  in  mute  defeat! 

His  boundaries  in  blood  are  writ! 
His  land  is  ghostland!     That  is  his, 
Whatever  man  may  claim  of  this; 
Beware  how  you  shall  enter  it! 
He  stands  God's  guardian  of  ghostlands, 
Ay,  this  same  wrapped  half-prophet  stands 
All  nude  and  voiceless,  nearer  to 
The  awful  God  than  I  or  you. 


IX. 


This  bronzed  child,  by  that  river's  brink, 
Stood  fair  to  see  as  you  can  think, 
As  tall  as  tall  reeds  at  her  feet, 
As  fresh  as  flowers  in  her  hair; 
As  sweet  as  flowers  over-sweet, 
As  fair  as  vision  more  than  fair! 


THE   SEA   OF   FIRE.  21 

How  beautiful  she  was!     How  wild! 
How  pure  as  water-plant,  this  child, — 
This  one  wild  child  of  Nature  here 
Grown  tall  in  shadows. 

And  how  near 

To  God,  where  no  man  stood  between 
Her  eyes  and  scenes  no  man  hath  seen, — 
This  maiden  that  so  mutely  stood, 
The  one  lone  woman  of  that  wood. 

Stop  still,  my  friend,  and  do  not  stir, 
Shut  close  your  page  and  think  of  her. 
The  birds  sang  sweeter  for  her  face; 
Her  lifted  eyes  were  like  a  grace 
To  seamen  of  that  solitude, 
However  rough,  however  rude. 

The  rippled  rivers  of  her  hair, 
That  ran  in  wondrous  waves,  somehow 
Flowed  down  divided  by  her  brow, — 
Half  mantled  her  within  its  care, 
And  flooded  all,  or  bronze  or  snow, 
In  its  uncommon  fold  and  flow. 

A  perfume  and  an  incense  lay 
Before  her,  as  an  incense  sweet 


22  THE    SEA   OF    FIRE. 

Before  blithe  mowers  of  sweet  May 
In  early  morn.     Her  certain  feet 
Embarked  on  no  uncertain  way. 

Come,  think  how  perfect  before  men, 
How  sweet  as  sweet  magnolia  bloom 
Embalmed  in  dews  of  morning,  when 
Rich  sunlight  leaps  from  midnight  gloom 
Resolved  to  kiss,  and  swift  to  kiss 
P2re  yet  morn  wakens  man  to  bliss. 


x. 


The  days  swept  on.     Her  perfect  year 
Was  with  her  now.     The  sweet  perfume 
Of  womanhood  in  holy  bloom, 
As  when  red  harvest  blooms  appear, 
Possessed  her  now.     The  priest  did  pray 
That  saints  alone  should  pass  that  way. 

A  red  bird  built  beneath  her  roof, 
Brown  squirrels  crossed  her  cabin  sill, 
And  welcome  came  or  went  at  will. 
A  hermit  spider  wove  his  web, 


THE   SEA   OF    FIRE.  23 

And  up  against  the  roof  would  spin 
His  net  to  catch  mosquitoes  in. 

The  silly  elk,  the  spotted  fawn, 

And  all  dumb  beasts  that  came  to  drink, 

That  stealthy  stole  upon  the  brink 

In  that  dim  while  that  lies  between 

The  coming  night  and  going  dawn, 

On  seeing  her  familiar  face 

Would  fearless  stop  and  stand  in  place. 

She  was  so  kind,  the  beasts  of  night 
Gave  her  the  road  as  if  her  right; 
The  panther  crouching  overhead 
In  sheen  of  moss  would  hear  her  tread, 
And  bend  his  eyes,  but  never  stir 
Lest  he  by  chance  might  frighten  her. 

Yet  in  her  splendid  strength,  her  eyes, 

There  lay  the  lightning  of  the  skies; 

The  love-hate  of  the  lioness, 

To  kill  the  instant  or  caress: 

A  pent-up  soul  that  sometimes  grew 

Impatient;  why,  she  hardly  knew. 


24  THE   SEA   OF   FIRE. 

At  last  she  sighed,  uprose,  and  threw 
Her  strong  arms  out  as  if  to  hand 
Her  love,  sun-born  and  all  complete 
At  birth,  to  some  brave  lover's  feet 
On  some  far,  fair,  and  unseen  land, 
As  knowing  now  not  what  to  do! 


XI. 

How  beautiful  she  was!     Why,  she 
Was  inspiration!     She  was  born 
To  walk  God's  summer  hills  at  morn, 
Nor  waste  her  by  this  wood-dark  sea. 
What  wonder,  then,  her  soul's  white  wings 
Beat  at  its  bars,  like  living  things! 

Once    more    she     sighed!   She  wandered 

through 
The  sea-bound  wood,  then    stopped   and 

drew 

Her  hand  above  her  face,  and  swept 
The  lonesome  sea,  and  all  day  kept 
Her  face  to  sea,  as  if  she  knew 
Some  day,  some  near  or  distant  day, 
Her  destiny  should  come  that  way. 


THE   SEA   OF    FIRE.  25 


XII. 

How  proud  she  was!  How  darkly  fair! 
How  full  of  faith,  of  love;  of  strength! 
Her  calm,  proud  eyes!     Her  great  hair's 

length, — 

Her  long,  strong,  tumbled,  careless  hair, 
Half  curled  and  knotted  anywhere, 
From  brow  to  breast,  from  cheek  to  chin, 
For  love  to  trip  and  tangle  in! 


XIII. 

At  last  a  tall  strange  sail  was  seen: 
It  came  so  slow,  so  wearily, 
Came  creeping  cautious  up  the  sea, 
As  if  it  crept  from  out  between 
The  half-closed  sea  and  sky  that  lay 
Tight  wedged  together,  far  away. 

She  watched  it,  wooed  it.     She  did  pray 
It  might  not  pass  her  by   but  bring 
Some  love,  some  hate,  some  anything, 


26  THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 

To  break  the  awful  loneliness 
That  like  a  nightly  nightmare  lay 
Upon  her  proud  and  pent-up  soul 
Until  it  barely  brooked  control. 


XIV. 

The  ship  crept  silent  up  the  sea, 
And  came — 

You  cannot  understand 
How  fair  she  was,  how  sudden  she 
Had  sprung,  full-grown,  to  womanhood: 
How  gracious,  yet  how  proud  and  grand; 
How  glorified,  yet  fresh  and  free, 
How  human,  yet  how  more  than  good. 


xv. 

The  ship  stole  slowly,  slowly  on; — 
Should  you  in  Californian  field 
In  ample  flower-time  behold 
The  soft  south  rose  lift  like  a  shield 
Against  the  sudden  sun  at  dawn, 


THE    SEA   OF    FIRE.  2/ 

A  double  handful  of  heaped  gold, 
Why  you,  perhaps,  might  understand 
How  splendid  and  how  queenly  she 
Uprose  beside  that  wood-set  sea. 

The  storm-worn  ship  scarce  seemed  to  creep 
From  wave  to  wave.     It  scarce  could  keep — 
How  still  this  fair  girl  stood,  how  fair ! 
How  proud  her  presence  as  she  stood 
Between  that  vast  sea  and  west  wood ! 
How  large  and  liberal  her  soul, 
How  confident,  how  purely  chare, 
How  trusting;  how  untried  the  whole 
Great  heart,   grand    faith,    that    blossomed 
there. 


xvi. 

Ay,  she  was  as  Madonna  to 

The  tawny,  lawless,  faithful  few 

Who  touched  her  hand  and  knew  her  soul: 

She  drew  them,  drew  them  as  the  pole 

Points  all  things  to  itself. 

She  drew 
Men  upward  as  a  moon  of  spring, 


28  THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 

High  wheeling,  vast  and  bosom-full, 
Half  clad  in  clouds  and  white  as  wool, 
Draws  all  the  strong  seas  following. 

Yet  still  she  moved  as  sad,  as  lone 
'As  that  same  moon  that  leans  above, 
And  seems  to  search  high  heaven  through 
For  some  strong,  all-sufficient  love, 
For  one  brave  love  to  be  her  own, 
To  lean  upon,  to  love,  to  woo, 
To  lord  her  high,  white  world,  to  yield 
His  clashing  sword  against  her  shield. 

Oh,  I  once  knew  a  sad,  white  dove 
That  died  for  such  sufficient  love, 
Such  high-born  soul  with  wings  to  soar: 
That  stood  up  equal  in  its  place, 
That  looked  love  level  in  the  face, 
Nor  wearied  love  with  leaning  o'er 
To  lift  love  level  where  she  trod 
In  sad  delight  the  hills  of  God. 

XVII. 

How  slow  before  the  sleeping  breeze, 
That  stranger  ship  from  under  seas  ! 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE.  2Q 

How  like  to  Dido  by  her  sea, 

When  reaching  arms  imploringly, — 

Her  large,  round,  rich,  impassioned  arms, 

Tossed  forth  from  all  her  storied  charms — 

This  one  lone  maiden  leaning  stood 

Above  that  sea,  beside  the  wood  ! 

The  ship  crept  strangely  iip  the  seas; 

Her  shrouds  seemed  shreds,  her  masts  seemed 

trees, — 

Strange  tattered  trees  of  toughest  bough 
That  knew  no  cease  of  storm  till  now. 
The  maiden  pitied  her;  she  prayed 
Her  crew  might  come,  nor  feel  afraid; 
She   prayed  the   winds   might   come, — they 

came, 
As  birds  that  answer  to  a  name. 

The  maiden  held  her  blowing  hair 

That  bound  her  beauteous  self  about; 

The  sea-winds  housed  within  her  hair: 

She  let  it  go,  it  blew  in  rout 

About  her  bosom  full  and  bare. 

Her  round,  full  arms  were  free  as  air, 

Her  high  hands  clasped  as  clasped  in  prayer. 


3O  THE    SEA   OF    FIRE. 


XVIII. 

The  breeze  grew  bold,  the  battered  ship 
Began  to  flap  her  weary  wings; 
The  tall,  torn  masts  began  to  dip 
And  walk  the  wave  like  living  things. 
She  rounded  in,  she  struck  the  stream, 
She  moved  like  some  majestic  dream. 

The  captain  kept  her  deck.     He  stood 
A  Hercules  among  his  men; 
And  now  he  watched  the  sea,  and  then 
He  peered  as  if  to  pierce  the  wood. 
He  now  looked  back,  as  if  pursued, 
Now  swept  the  sea  with  glass  as  though 
He  fled  or  feared  some  hidden  foe. 

Swift  sailing  up  the  river's  mouth, 

Swift  tacking  north,  swift  tacking  south, 

He  touched  the  overhanging  wood; 

He  tacked  his  ship;  his  tall  black  mast 

Touched  tree-top  mosses  as  he  passed; 

He  touched  the  steep  shore  where  she  stood. 


THE    SEA   OF    FIRE.  31 


XIX. 

Her  hands  still  clasped  as  if  in  prayer, 
Sweet  prayer  set  to  silentness; 
Her  sun-browned  throat  uplifted,  bare 
And  beautiful. 

Her  eager  face 

Illumed  with  love  and  tenderness, 
And  all  her  presence  gave  such  grace, 
Dark  shadowed  in  her  cloud  of  hair, 
That  she  seemed  more  than  mortal  fair. 


xx. 


He  saw.     He  could  not  speak.     No  more 
With  lifted  glass  he  sought  the  sea  ; 
No  more  he  watched  the  wild  new  shore. 
Now  foes  might  come,  now  friends  might  flee; 
He  could  not  speak,  he  would  not  stir, — 
He  saw  but  her,  he  feared  but  her. 

The  black  ship  ground  against  the  shore, 
She  ground  against  the  bank  as  one 


32  THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 

With  long  and  weary  journeys  done, 
That  would  not  rise  to  journey  more. 

Yet  still  this  Jason  silent  stood 
And  gazed  against  that  sun-lit  wood, 
As  one  whose  soul  is  anywhere. 

All  seemed  so  fair,  so  wondrous  fair  ! 
At  last  aroused,  he  stepped  to  land 
Like  some  Columbus.     They  laid  hand 
On  lands  and  fruits,  and  rested  there. 


XXI. 

He  found  all  fairer  than  fair  morn 
In  sylvan  land,  where  waters  run 
With  downward  leap  against  the  sun, 
And  full-grown  sudden  May  is  born. 
He  found  her  taller  than  tall  corn 
Tiptoe  in  tassel  ;  found  her  sweet 
As  vale  where  bees  of  Hybla  meet. 

An  unblown  rose,  an  unread  book  ; 
A  wonder  in  her  wondrous  eyes  ; 


THE    SEA   OF    FIRE.  33 

A  large,  religious,  steadfast  look 
Of  faith,  of  trust, — the  look  of  one 
New  welcomed  in  her  Paradise. 

He  read  this  book — read  on  and  on 
From  titlepage  to  colophon  : 
As  in  cool  woods,  some  summer  day, 
You  find  delight  in  some  sweet  lay, 
And  so  entranced  read  on  and  on 
From  titlepage  to  colophon. 


XXII. 

And  who  was  he  that  rested  there, — 
This  Hercules,  so  huge,  so  rare, 
This  giant  of  a  grander  day, 
This  Theseus  of  a  nobler  Greece, 
This  Jason  of  the  golden  fleece? 
And  who  was  he?     And  who  were  they 
That  came  to  seek  the  hidden  gold 
Long  hollowed  from  the  pirate's  hold? 
I  do  not  know.     You  need  not  care. 


They  loved,  this  maiden  and  this  man, 

3 


34  THE    SEA   OF    FIRE. 

And  that  is  all  I  surely  know, — 
The  rest  is  as  the  winds  that  blow. 
He  bowed  as  brave  men  bow  to  fate, 
Yet  proud  and  resolute  and  bold; 
She,  coy  at  first,  and  mute  and  cold, 
Held  back  and  seemed  to  hesitate, — 
Half  frightened  at  this  love  that  ran 
Hard  gallop  till  her  hot  heart  beat 
Like  sounding  of  swift  courser's  feet. 


XXIII. 

Two  strong  streams  of  a  land  must  run 
Together  surely  as  the  sun 
Succeeds  the  moon.     Who  shall  gainsay 
The  fates  that  reign,  that  wisely  reign  ? 
Love  is,  love  was,  shall  be  again. 
Like  death,  inevitable  it  is; 
Perchance,  like  death,  the  dawn  of  bliss. 
Let  us,  then,  love  the  perfect  day, 
The  twelve  o'clock  of  life,  and  stop 
The  two  hands  pointing  to  the  top, 
And  hold  them  tightly  while  we  may. 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE.  35 


XXIV. 

How  piteous  strange  is  love!     The  walks 
By  wooded  ways;  the  silent  talks 
Beneath  the  broad  and  fragrant  bough. 
The  dark  deep  wood,  the  dense  black  dell, 
Where  scarce  a  single  gold  beam  fell 
From  out  the  sun. 

They  rested  now 

On  mossy  trunk.     They  wandered  then 
Where  never  fell  the  feet  of  men. 

Then  longer  walks,  then  deeper  woods, 
Then  sweeter  talks,  sufficient  sweet, 
In  denser,  deeper  solitudes, — 
Dear  careless  ways  for  careless  feet ; 
Sweet  talks  of  paradise  tor  two, 
And  only  two  to  watch  or  woo. 

She  rarely  spake.     All  seemed  a  dream 
She  would  not  waken  from.     She  lay 
All  night  but  waiting  for  the  day, 
When  she  might  see  his  face,  and  deem 
This  man,  with  all  his  perils  passed, 
Had  found  the  Lotus-land  at  last. 


36  THE   SEA   OF    FIRE. 


XXV. 

The  year  waxed  fervid,  and  the  sun 
Fell  central  down.     The  forest  lay 
A-quiver  in  the  heat.     The  sea 
Below  the  steep  bank  seemed  to  run 
A  molten  sea  of  gold. 

Away 

Against  the  gray  and  rock-built  isles 
That  broke  the  molten  watery  miles 
Where  lonesome  sea-cows  called  all  day, 
The  sudden  sun  smote  angrily. 

Therefore  the  need  of  deeper  deeps, 
Of  denser  shade  for  man  and  maid, 
Of  higher  heights,  of  cooler  steeps, 
Where  all  day  long  the  sea-wind  stayed. 

They  sought   the    rock-reared    steep.     The 

breeze 

Swept  twenty  thousand  miles  of  seas; 
Had  twenty  thousand  things  to  say, 
Of  love,  of  lovers  of  Cathay, 
To  lovers  'mid  these  high-held  trees. 


THE   SEA   OF    FIRE.  37 


XXVI. 

To  left,  to  right,  below  the  height, 
Below  the  wood  by  wave  and  stream, 
Plumed  pampas  grasses  grew  to  gleam 
And  bend  their  lordly  plumes,  and  run 
And  shake,  as  if  in  very  fright 
Before  sharp  lances  of  the  sun. 

They  saw  the  tide-bound,  battered  ship 
Creep  close  below  against  the  bank  ; 
They  saw  it  cringe  and  shrink  ;  it  shrank 
As  shrinks  some  huge  black  beast  with  fear 
When  some  uncommon  dread  is  near. 
They  heard  the  melting  resin  drig, 

As  drip  the  last  brave  blood-drops  when 
Life's  battle  waxes  hot  with  men. 

xxvn. 

Yet  what  to  her  were  burning  seas, 

Or  what  to  him  was  forest  flame  ? 

They  loved;  they  loved  the  glorious  trees, 


38  THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 

The  gleaming  tides,  or  rise  or  fall; 
They  loved  the  lisping  winds  that  came 
From  sea-lost  spice-set  isles  unknown, 
With  breath  not  warmer  than  their  own  : 
They  loved,  they  loved, — and  that  was  all. 


XXVIII. 

Full  noon  !     Below  the  ancient  moss 
With  mighty  boughs  high  clanged  across, 
The  man  with  sweet  words,  over-sweet, 
Fell  pleading,  plaintive,  at  her  feet. 

He  spake  of  love,  of  boundless  love, — 
Of  love  that  knew  no  other  land, 
Or  face,  or  place,  or  anything ; 
Of  love  that  like  the  wearied  dove 
Could  light  nowhere,  but  kept  the  wing 
Till  she  alone  put  forth  her  hand 
And  so  received  it  in  her  ark 
From  seas  that  shake  against  the  dark ! 

He  clasped  her  hands,  climbed  past  her  knees, 
Forgot  her  hands  and  kissed  her  hair, — 


THE    SEA   OF    FIRE.  39 

The  while  her  two  hands  clasped  in  prayer, 
And  fair  face  lifted  to  the  trees. 


Her  proud   breast   heaved,   her  pure  proud 

breast 

Rose  like  the  waves  in  their  unrest 
When  counter  storms  possess  the  seas. 
Her  mouth,  her  arched,  uplifted  mouth, 
Her  ardent  mouth  that  thirsted  so, — 
No  glowing  lovesong  of  the  South 
Can  say;  no  man  can  say  or  know 
The  glory  there,  and  so  live  on 
Content  without  that  glory  gone  ! 


Her  face  still  lifted  up.     And  she 

Disdained  the  cup  of  passion  he 

Hard  pressed  her  panting  lips  to  touch. 

She  dashed  it  by  despised,  and  she 

Caught  fast  her  breath.     She  trembled  much, 

And  sudden  rose  full  height,  and  stood 

An  empress  in  high  womanhood: 

She  stood  a  tower,  tall  as  when 

Proud  Roman  mothers  suckled  men 

Of  old-time  truth  and  taught  them  such. 


40  THE   SEA  OF   FIRE. 


XXIX. 

Her  soul  surged  vast  as  space  is.    She 
Was  trembling  as  a  courser  when 
His  thin  flank  quivers,  and  his  feet 
Touch  velvet  on  the  turf,  and  he 
Is  all  afoam,  alert  and  fleet 
As  sunlight  glancing  on  the  sea, 
And  full  of  triumph  before  men. 

At  last  she  bended  some  her  face, 
Half  leaned,  then  put  him  back  a  pace, 
And  met  his  eyes. 

Calm,  silently 

Her  eyes  looked  deep  into  his  eyes, — 
As  maidens  down  some  mossy  well 
Do  peer  in  hope  by  chance  to  tell 
By  image  there  what  future  lies 
Before  them,  and  what  face  shall  be 
The  pole-star  of  their  destiny. 

Pure  Nature's  lover!     Loving  him 
With  love  that  made  all  pathways  dim 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE.  4! 

And  difficult  where  he  was  not, — 

Then  marvel  not  at  form  forgot. 

And  who  shall  chide  ?  Doth  priest  know  aught 

Of  sign,  or  holy  unction  brought 

From  over  seas,  that  ever  can 

Make  man  love  maid  or  maid  love  man 

One  whit  the  more,  one  bit  the  less, 

For  all  his  mummeries  to  bless? 

Yea,  all  his  blessings  or  his  ban? 

The  winds  breathed  warm  as  Araby: 
She  leaned  upon  his  breast,  she  lay 
A  wide-winged  swan  with  folded  wing. 
He  drowned  his  hot  face  in  her  hair, 
He  heard  her  great  heart  rise  and  sing; 
He  felt  her  bosom  swell. 

The  air 

Swooned  sweet  with  perfume  of  her  form. 
Her  breast  was  warm,  her  breath  was  warm, 
And  warm  her  warm  and  perfumed  mouth 
As  summer  journeys  through  the  South. 


xxx. 


The  argent  sea  surged  steep  below, 


42  THE   SEA    OF    FIRE. 

Surged  languid  in  a  tropic  glow; 
And  two  great  hearts  kept  surging  so! 

The  fervid  kiss  of  heaven  lay 
Precipitate  on  wood  and  sea. 
Two  great  souls  glowed  with  ecstasy, 
The  sea  glowed  scarce  as  warm  as  they. 


XXXI. 

Twas  love's  low  amber  afternoon. 
Two  far-off  pheasants  thrummed  a  tune, 
A  cricket  clanged  a  restful  air. 
The  dreamful  billows  beat  a  rune 
Like  heart  regrets. 

Around  her  head 

There  shone  a  halo.     Men  have  said 
Twas  from  a  dash  of  Titian 
That  flooded  all  her  storm  of  hair 
In  gold  and  glory.     But  they  knew, 
Yea,  all  men  know  there  ever  grew 
A  halo  round  about  her  head 
Like  sunlight  scarcely  vanished. 


THE    SEA   OF    FIRE.  43 


XXXII. 

How  still  she  was!     She  only  knew 

His  love.     She  saw  no  life  beyond. 

She  loved  with  love  that  only  lives 

Outside  itself  and  selfishness,— 

A  love  that  glows  in  its  excess; 

A  love  that  melts  pure  gold,  and  gives 

Thenceforth  to  all  who  come  to  woo 

No  coins  but  this  face  stamped  thereon,- 

Ay,  this  one  image  stamped  upon 

Its  face,  with  some  dim  date  long  gone. 


xxxin. 

They  kept  the  headland  high;  the  ship 
Below  began  to  chafe  her  chain, 
To  groan  as  some  great  beast  in  pain; 
While  white  fear  leapt  from  lip  to  lip: 
"The  woods  are  fire!  the  woods  are  flame! 
Comedown  and  save  us  in  God's  name!" 

He  heard!  he  did  not  speak  or  stir, — 
He  thought  of  her,  of  only  her, 


44  THE   SEA   OF    FIRE. 

While  flames  behind,  before  them  lay 
To  hold  the  stoutest  heart  at  bay! 

Strange  sounds  were  heard  far  up  the  flood, 
Strange,  savage  sounds  that  chilled  the  blood! 
Then  sudden  from  the  dense,  dark  wood 
Above,  about  them  where  they  stood 
A  thousand  beasts  came  peering  out; 
And  now  was  thrust  a  long  black  snout, 
And  now  a  dusky  mouth.     It  was 
A  sight  to  make  the  stoutest  pause. 

"Cut  loose  the  ship!"  the  black  mate  cried; 
"Cut  loose  the  ship!"  the  crew  replied. 

They  drove  into  the  sea.     It  lay 

As  light  as  ever  middle  day. 

The  while  their  half-blind  bitch  that  sat 
All  slobber-mouthed,  and  monkish  cowled 
With  great,  broad,  floppy,  leathern  ears 
Amid  the  men,  rose  up  and  howled, 
And  doleful  howled  her  plaintive  fears, 
While  all  looked  mute  aghast  thereat. 
It  was  the  grimmest  eve,  I  think, 
That  ever  hung  on  Hades'  brink 


THE    SEA   OF    FIRE.  45 

Great  broad-winged  bats  possessed  the  air, 
Bats  whirling  blindly  everywhere; 
It  was  such  troubled  twilight  eve 
As  never  mortal  would  believe. 


xxxiv. 

Some  say  the  crazed  hag  lit  the  wood 
In  circle  where  the  lovers  stood; 
Some  say  the  gray  priest  feared  the  crew 
Might  find  at  last  the  hoard  of  gold 
Long  hidden  from  the  black  ship's  hold,- 
I  doubt  me  if  men  ever  knew. 
But  such  mad,  howling,  flame-lit  shore 
No  mortal  ever  saw  before. 

Huge  beasts  above  that  shining  sea, 
Wild,  hideous  beasts  with  shaggy  hair, 
With  red  mouths  lifting  in  the  air, 
They  piteous  howled,  and  plaintively, — 
The  wildest  sounds,  the  weirdest  sight 
That  ever  shook  the  walls  of  night. 

How  lorn  they  howled,  with  lifted  head, 


46  THE    SEA   OF    FIRE. 

To  dim  and  distant  isles  that  lay 
Wedged  tight  along  a  line  of  red, 
Caught  in  the  closing  gates  of  day 
'Twixt  sky  and  sea  and  far  away,— 
It  was  the  saddest  sound  to  hear 
That  ever  struck  on  human  ear. 

They  doleful  called;  and  answered  they 

The  plaintive  sea-cows  far  away, — 

The  great  sea-cows  that  called  from  isles, 

Away  across  wide  watery  miles, 

With  dripping  mouths  and  lolling  tongue, 

As  if  they  called  for  captured  young, — 

The  huge  sea-cows  that  called  the  whiles 
Their  great  wide  mouths  were  mouthing  moss ; 
And  still  they  doleful  called  across 
From  isles  beyond  the  watery  miles. 
No  sound  can  half  so  doleful  be 
As  sea-cows  calling  from  the  sea. 


XXXV. 

The  drowned  sun  sank  and  died.     He  lay 
In  seas  of  blood.     lie  sinking  drew 


THE   SEA   OF    FIRE.  47 

The  gates  of  sunset  sudden  to, 

Where  shattered  day  in  fragments  lay, 

And  night  came,  moving  in  mad  flame; 

The  night  came,  lighted  as  he  came, 

As  lighted  by  high  summer  sun 

Descending  through  the  burning  blue. 

It-was  a  gold  and  amber  hue, 

And  all  hues  blended  into  one. 

The  night  spilled  splendor  where  she  came, 

And  filled  the  yellow  world  with  flame. 

The  moon  came  on,  came  leaning  low 
Along  the  far  sca-islcs  aglow; 
She  fell  along  that  amber  flood 
A  silver  flame  in  seas  of  blood. 
It  was  the  strangest  moon,  ah  me! 
That  ever  settled  on  God's  sea. 


xxxvi. 

Slim  snakes  slid  down  from  fern  and  grass, 
From  wood,  from  fen,  from  anywhere; 
You  could  not  step,  you  would  not  pass, 
And  you  would  hesitate  to  stir, 


48  THE    SEA    OF    FIRE 

Lest  in  some  sudden,  hurried  tread 
Your  foot  struck  some  unbruised  head: 

They  slid  in  streams  into  the  stream, — 
It  seemed  like  some  infernal  dream; 
They  curved,  and  graceful  curved  across, 
Like  graceful,  waving  sea-green  moss, — 
There  is  no  art  of  man  can  make 
A  ripple  like  a  rippling  snake! 


XXXVII. 

Abandoned,  lorn,  the  lovers  stood, 
Abandoned  there,  death  in  the  air! 
That  beetling  steep,  that  blazing  wood — 
Red  flame!  and  red  flame  everywhere! 
Yet  was  he  born  to  strive,  to  bear 
The  front  of  battle.     He  would  die 
In  noble  effort,  and  defy 
The  grizzled  visage  of  despair. 

He  threw  his  two  strong  arms  full  length 
As  if  to  surely  test  their  strength; 
Then  tore  his  vestments,  textile  things 
That  could  but  tempt  the  demon  wings 


THE   SEA   OF    FIRE.  49 

Of  flame  that  girt  them  round  about, 
Then  threw  his  garments  to  the  air 
As  one  that  laughed  at  death,  at  doubt, 
And  like  a  god  stood  grand  and  bare. 

She  did  not  hesitate;  she  knew 
The  need  of  action;  swift  she  threw 
Her  burning  vestments  by,  and  bound 
Her  wondrous  wealth  of  hair  that  fell 
An  all-concealing  cloud  around 
Her  glorious  presence,  as  he  came 
To  seize  and  bear  her  through  the  flame, — 
An  Orpheus  out  of  burning  hell! 

He  leaned  above  her,  wound  his  arm 
About  her  splendor,  while  the  noon 
Of  flood  tide,  manhood,  flushed  his  face, 
And  high  flames  leapt  the  high  headland  !— 
They  stood  as  twin-hewn  statues  stand, 
High  lifted  in  some  storied  place. 

He  clasped  her  close,  he  spoke  of  death, — 
Of  death  and  love  in  the  same  breath. 
He  clasped  her  close;  her  bosom  lay 
Like  ship  safe  anchored  in  some  bay. 


50  THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 


XXXVIII. 

The  flames  !     They  could  not  stand  or  stay; 

Before  the  beetling  steep,  the  sea ! 

But  at  his  feet  a  narrow  way, 

A  short  steep  path,  pitched  suddenly 

Safe  open  to  the  river's  beach, 

Where  lay  a  small  white  isle  in  reach, — 

A  small,  white,  rippled  isle  of  sand 

Where  yet  the  two  might  safely  land. 

And  there,  through  smoke  and  flame,  behold 
The  priest  stood  safe,  yet  all  appalled  ! 
He  reached  the  cross;  he  cried,  he  called; 
He  waved  his  high-held  cross  of  gold. 
He  called  and  called,  he  bade  them  fly 
Through  flames  to  him,  nor  bide  and  die  ! 

Her  lover  saw;  he  saw,  and  knew 

His  giant  strength  would  bear  her  through. 

And  yet  he  would  not  start  or  stir. 

He  clasped  her  close  as  death  can  hold, 

Or  dying  miser  clasp  his  gold, — 

His  hold  became  a  part  of  her. 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE.  51 

He  would  not  give  her  up  !     He  would 
Not  bear  her  waveward  though  he  could ! 
That  height  was  heaven;  the  wave  was  hell. 
He  clasped  her  close, — what  else  had  done 
The  manliest  man  beneath  the  sun? 
Was  it  not  well?  was  it  not  well? 

O  man,  be  glad !  be  grandly  glad, 
And  king-like  walk  thy  ways  of  death  ! 
For  more  than  years  of  bliss  you  had 
That  one  brief  time  you  breathed  her  breath, 
Yea,  more  than  years  upon  a  throne 
That  one  brief  time  you  held  her  fast, 
Soul  surged  to  soul,  vehement,  vast, — 
True  breast  to  breast,  and  all  your  own. 

Live  me  one  day,  one  narrow  night, 
One  second  of  supreme  delight 
Like  that,  and  I  will  blow  like  chaff 
The  hollow  years  aside,  and  laugh 
A  loud  triumphant  laugh,  and  I, 
King-like  and  crowned,  will  gladly  die. 

Oh,  but  to  wrap  my  love  with  flame  ! 
With  flame  within,  with  flame  without  ! 


52  THE    SEA   OF    FIRE. 

Oh,  but  to  die  like  this,  nor  doubt — 
To  die  and  know  her  still  the  same  ! 
To  know  that  down  the  ghostly  shore 
Snow-white  she  waits  me  ever  more  ! 


xxxix. 

He  poised  her,  held  her  high  in  air, — 

His    great    strong    limbs,    his    great    arm's 

length! — 

Then  turned  his  knotted  shoulders  bare 
As  birth-time  in  his  splendid  strength, 
And  strode,  strode  with  a  lordly  stride 
To  where  the  high  and  wood-hung  edge 
Looked  down,  far  down  upon  the  molten  tide. 
The  flames  leaped  with  him  to  the  ledge, 
The  flames  leapt  leering  at  his  side. 


XL. 

He  leaned  above  the  ledge.  Below 
He  saw  the  black  ship  idly  cruise, — 
A  midge  below,  a  mile  below. 


THE   SEA   OF    FIRE.  53 

His  limbs  were  knotted  as  the  thews 
Of  Hercules  in  his  death-throe. 

The  flame  !    the  flame  !    the  envious  flame  ! 
She  wound  her  arms,  she  wound  her  hair 
About  his  tall  form,  grand  and  bare, 
To  stay  the  fierce  flame  where  it  came. 

The  black  ship,  like  some  moonlit  wreck, 
Below  along  the  burning  sea 
Crept  on  and  on  all  silently, 
With  silent  pygmies  on  her  deck. 

That  midge-like  ship,  far,  far  below  ; 
That  mirage  lifting  from  the  hill  ! 
His  flame-lit  form  began  to  grow,— 
To  grow  and  grow  more  grandly  still. 
The  ship  so  small,  that  form  so  tall, 
It  grew  to  tower  over  all. 

A  tall  Colossus,  bronze  and  gold, 
As  it  that  flame-lit  form  were  he 
Who  once  bestrode  the  Rhodian  sea, 
And  ruled  the  watery  world  of  old: 
As  if  the  lost  Colossus  stood 
Above  that  burning  sea  of  wood. 


54  THE   SEA   OF    FIRE. 

And  she  that  shapely  form  upheld, 
Held  high  as  if  to  touch  the  sky, 
What  airy  shape,  how  shapely  high, — 
A  goddess  of  the  seas  of  eld! 

Her  hand  upheld,  her  high  right  hand, 
As  if  she  would  forget  the  land; 
As  if  to  gather  stars,  and  heap 
The  stars  like  torches  there  to  light 
Her  Hero's  path  across  the  deep 
To  some  far  isle  that  fearful  night. 

It  was  as  if  Colossus  came, 
Came  proudly  reaching  from  the  flame 
Above  the  sea  in  sheen  of  gold, 
His  sea-bride  leaping  from  his  hold; 
The  lost  Colossus,  and  his  bride 
In  bronze  perfection  at  his  side: 
As  if  the  lost  Colossus  came 
Companioned  from  the  past,  his  bride 
With  torch  all  faithful  at  his  side: 

With   star-tipped   torch   that  reached   and 

rolled 

Through  cloud-built  corridors  of  gold: 
His  bride,   austere  and  stern   and  grand, — 


THE    SEA   OF    FIRE.  55 

Bartholdi's  goddess  by  the  sea, 

Far  lifting,  lighting  Liberty 

From  prison  seas  to  freedom's  land. 


XLI. 

The  flame!  the  envious  flame,  it  leapt 

Enraged  to  see  such  majesty, 

Such  scorn  of  death;  such  kingly  scorn. 

Then  like  some  lightning-riven  tree 

They  sank  down   in   that   flame — and  slept 

And  all  was  hushed  above  that  steep 

So  still  that  they  might  sleep  and  sleep; 

As  still  as  when  a  day  is  born. 


At  last!  from  out  the  embers  leapt 
Two  shafts  of  light  above  the  night, — 
Two  wings  of  flame  that  lifting  swept 
In  steady,  calm,  and  upward  flight; 
Two  wings  of  flame  against  the  white 
Far-lifting,  tranquil,  snowy  cone; 
Two  wings  of  love,  two  wings  of  light, 


56  THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 

Far,  far  above  that  troubled  night, 

As  mounting,  mounting  to  God's  throne. 


XLII. 

And  all  night  long  that  upward  light 
Lit  up  the  sea-cow's  bed  below: 
The  far  sea-cows  still  calling  so 
It  seemed  as  they  must  call  all  night. 
All  night !  there  was  no  night.     Nay,  nay, 
There  was  no  night.     The  night  that  lay 
Between  that  awful  eve  and  day, — 
That  nameless  night  was  burned  away. 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE   GREAT  RIVER. 

PART    I. 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.  59 


PART   I. 


on,  rhyme  on,  in  reedy  flow, 
O  river,  rhymer  ever  sweet! 
The  story  of  thy  land  is  meet, 
The  stars  stand  liste?iing  to  know. 

Rhyme  o?i,  O  river  of  the  earth! 
Gray  father  of  the  dreadful  seas, 
Rhyme  on!  the  world  upon  its  knees 

Shall  yet  invoke  thy  wealth  and  worth. 

Rhyme  on,  the  reed  is  at  thy  mouth, 

0  kingly  minstrel,  mighty  stream! 
Thy  Crescent  City,  like  a  dream, 

Hangs  in  the  heaven  of  my  South. 

* 

Rhyme  on,  rhyme  on!  these  broken  strings 
Sing  sweetest  in  this  warm  south  wind; 

1  sit  thy  willow  banks  and  bind 
A  broken  harp  that  fit  fid  sings. 


6O  THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT   RIVER. 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  GREAT  RIVER. 


A 


ND  where  is  my  city,  sweet  blossom-sown 

town  ? 

And  what  is  her  glory,  and  what  has  she  done  ? 
By  the  Mexican  seas  in  the  path  of  the  sun 
Sit  you  down :  in  the  crescent  of  seas  sit  you 
down. 

Ay,  glory  enough  by  my  Mexican  seas ! 
Ay,  story  enough  in  that  battle-torn  town, 
Hidden  down  in  the  crescent  of  seas,  hidden 
down 

'Mid  mantle  and  sheen  of  magnolia-strewn  trees. 

But  mine  is  the  story  of  souls;  of  a  soul 
That  bartered  God's  limitless   kingdom  for 

gold- 
Sold  stars  and  all  space  for  a  thing  he  could 

hold 
In  his  palm  for  a  day,  ere  he  hid  with  the  mole. 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.  6l 

O  father  of  waters  !     O  river  so  vast ! 

So  deep,  so  strong,  and  so  wondrous  wild, — 
He  embraces  the  land  as  he  rushes  past, 

Like  a  savage  father  embracing  his  child. 

His  sea-land  is  true  and  so  valiantly  true, 
His  leaf-land  is  fair  and  so  marvelous  fair, 
His  palm-land  is  filled  with  a  perfumed  air 

Of  magnolia  blooms  to  its  dome  of  blue. 

His  rose-land  has  arbors  of  moss-swept  oak,— 
Gray,  Druid  old  oaks ;  and  the  moss  that  sways 

And  swings  in  the  wind  is  the  battle-smoke 
Of  duelists,  dead  in  her  storied  days. 

His    love-land    has    churches    and    bells    and 

chimes ; 

His  love-land  has  altars  and  orange  flowers  ; 
And  that  is  the  reason  for  all  these  rhymes, — 
These  bells,  they  are  ringing  through  all  the 
hours ! 

His  sun-land  has  churches  and  priests  at  prayer, 
White  nuns,  as  white  as  the  far  north  snow; 
They  go  where  danger  may  bid  them  go, — 

They  dare  when  the  angel  of  death  is  there. 


62  THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

His  love-land  has  ladies  so  fair,  so  fair, 

In  the  Creole  quarter,  with  great  black  eyes, 

So  fair  that  the  Mayor  must  keep  them  there 
Lest  troubles,  like  troubles  of  Troy,  arise. 

His  love-land  has  ladies,  with  eyes  held  down, 
Held  down,  because  if  they  lifted  them, 

Why,  you  would  be  lost  in  that  old  French  town, 
Though  you  held  even  to  God's  garment  hem. 

His  love-land  has  ladies  so  fair,  so  fair, 
That  they  bend  their  eyes  to  the  holy  book, 

Lest  you  should  forget  yourself,  your  prayer, 
And  never  more  cease  to  look  and  to  look. 

And  these  are  the  ladies  that  no  men  see', 
And  this  is  the  reason  men  see  them  not. 

Better  their  modest  sweet  mystery,— 
Better  by  far  than  the  battle-shot. 

And  so,  in  this  curious  old  town  of  tiles. 

The  proud  French  quarter  of  days  long  gone, 
In  castles  of  Spain  and  tumble-down  piles 

These  wonderful  ladies  live  on  and  on. 


THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER.  63 

I  sit  in  the  church  where  they  come  and  go; 

I  dream  of  glory  that  has  long  since  gone, 
Of  the  low  raised  high,  of  the  high  brought  low, 

As  in  battle-torn  days  of  Napoleon. 

These  piteous  places,  so  rich,  so  poor! 

One  quaint  old  church  at  the  edge  of  the  town 
Has  white  tombs  laid  to  the  very  church  door, — 

White  leaves  in  the  story  of  life  turned  down. 

White  leaves  in  the  story  of  life  are  these, 
The  low  white  slabs  in  the  long, strong  grass, 
Where  Glory  has  emptied  her  hour  glass 

And  dreams  with  the  dreamers  beneath  the  trees. 

I  dream  with  the  dreamers  beneath  the  sod, 
Where  souls  pass  by  to  the  great  white  throne; 
I  count  each  tomb  as  a  mute  milestone 

For  weary,  sweet  souls  on  their  way  to  God. 

I  sit  all  day  by  the  vast,  strong  stream, 

'Mid  low  white  slabs  in  the  long,  strong  grass 
Where  time  has  forgotten  for  aye  to  pass, 

To  dream,  and  ever  to  dream  and  to  dream. 


64  THE    RHVME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

This  quaint  old  church  with  its  dead  to  the  door, 
By  the  cypress  swamp  at  the  edge  of  the 

town, 
So  restful  seems  that  you  want  to  sit  down 

And  rest  you,  and  rest  you  for  evermore. 

And  one  white  tomb  is  a  lowliest  tomb 
That  has  crept  up  close  to  the  crumbling 
door, — 

Some  penitent  soul,  as  imploring  room 
Close  under  the  cross  that  is  leaning  o'er. 

'Tis  a  low  white  slab,  and  't  is  nameless,  too — 
Her  untold  story,  why,  who  should  know? 

Yet  God,  I  reckon,  can  read  right  through 
That  nameless  stone  to  the  bosom  below. 

And  the  roses  know,  and  they  pity  her,  too; 
They  bend  their  heads  in  the  sun  or  rain, 
And  they  read,  and  they  read,  and  then  read 
again, 

As  children  reading  strange  pictures  through. 

Why,  surely  her  sleep  it  should  be  profound; 
For,  oh,  the  apples  of  gold  above! 


THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER.  65 

And,  oh,  the  blossoms  of  bridal  love! 
And,  oh,  the  roses  that  gather  around! 

The  sleep  of  a  night  or  a  thousand  morns? 

Why,  what  is  the  difference  here,  to-day? 

Sleeping  and  sleeping  the  years  away 
With  all  earth's  roses  and  none  of  its  thorns. 

Magnolias  white  and  the  roses  red — 
The  palm-tree  here  and  the  cypress  there: 

Sit  down  by  the  palm  at  the  feet  of  the  dead, 
And  hear  a  penitent's  midnight  prayer. 


II. 


The  old  churchyard  is  still  as  death, 
A  stranger  passes  to  and  fro 
As  if  to  church — he  does  not  go — 

The  dead  night  does  not  draw  a  breath. 

A  lone  sweet  lady  prays  within. 
The  stranger  passes  by  the  door — 
Will  he  not  pray?     Is  he  so  poor 

He  has  no  prayer  for  his  sin? 
5 


66  THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

Is  he  so  poor?      His  two  strong  hands 
Are  full  and  heavy,  as  with  gold; 

They  clasp,  as  clasp  two  iron  bands 
About  two  bags  with  eager  hold. 

Will  he  not  pause  and  enter  in, 
Put  down  his  heavy  load  and  rest, 

Put  off  his  garmenting  of  sin, 
As  some  black  burden  from  his  breast? 

Ah,  me!  the  brave  alone  can  pray. 

The  church-door  is  as  cannon's  mouth 
To  sinner  North,  or  sinner  South, 

More  dreaded  than  dread  battle  day. 

Now  two  men  pace.     They  pace  apart, 
And  one  with  youth  and  truth  is  fair; 

The  fervid  sun  is  in  his  heart, 
The  tawny  South  is  in  his  hair. 

Ay,  two  men  pace,  pace  left  and  right— 
The  lone,  sweet  lady  prays  within— 

Ay,  two  men  pace:  the  silent  night 
Kneels  down  in  prayer  for  some  sin. 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  GREAT  RIVER.     6/ 

Lo!  two  men  pace;  and  one  is  gray, 
A  blue-eyed  man  from  snow-clad  land, 
With  something  heavy  in  each  hand, — 

With  heavy  feet,  as  feet  of  clay. 

Ay,  two  men  pace;  and  one  is  light 
Of  step,  but  still  his  brow  is  dark; 
His  eyes  are  as  a  kindled  spark 

That  burns  beneath  the  brow  of  night! 

And  still  they  pace.     The  stars  are  red, 
The  tombs  are  white  as  frosted  snow; 

The  silence  is  as  if  the  dead 

Did  pace  in  couples,  to  and  fro. 


in. 

The  azure  curtain  of  God's  house 

Draws   back,   and   hangs   star-pinned   to 
space; 

I  hear  the  low,  large  moon  arouse, 
I  see  her  lift  her  languid  face. 

I  see  her  shoulder  up  the  east, 
Low-necked,  and  large  as  womanhood, — 


68  THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

Low-necked,  as  for  some  ample  feast 
Of  gods,  within  yon  orange-wood. 

She  spreads  white  palms,  she  whispers  peace, — 
Sweet  peace  on  earth  forevermore; 

Sweet  peace  for  two  beneath  the  trees, 
Sweet  peace  for  one  within  the  door 

The  bent  stream,  like  a  scimitar 

Flashed  in  the  sun,  sweeps  on  and  on, 
Till   sheathed  like    some   great  sword  new- 
drawn 

In  seas  beneath  the  Carib's  star. 

The  high  moon  climbs  the  sapphire  hill, 
The  lone,  sweet  lady  prays  within; 
The  crickets  keep  a  clang  and  din — 

They  are  so  loud,  earth  is  so  still! 

And  two  men  glare  in  silence  there! 
The  bitter,  jealous  hate  of  each 
Has  grown  too  deep  for  deed  or  speech — 

The  lone  sweet  lady  keeps  her  prayer. 

The  vast  moon  high  through  heaven's  field 
In  circling  chariot  is  rolled; 


THE   RHYME   OF   THE   GREAT  RIVER.  69 

The  golden  stars  are  spun  and  reeled, 
Arid  woven  into  cloth  of  gold. 

The  white  magnolia  fills  the  night 

With  perfume,  as  the  proud  moon  fills 

The  glad  earth  with  her  ample  light 
From  out  her  awful  sapphire  hills. 

White  orange  blossoms  fill  the  boughs 
Above,  about  the  old  church  door, — 

They  wait  the  bride,  the  bridal  vows, — 
They  never  hung  so  fair  before. 

The  two  men  glare  as  dark  as  sin! 

And  yet  all  seems  so  fair,  so  white, 
You  would  not  reckon  it  was  night, — 

The  while  the  lady  prays  within. 


IV. 


She  prays  so  very  long  and  late, — 
The  two  men,  weary,  waiting  there,- 

The  great  magnolia  at  the  gate 
Bends  drowsily  above  her  prayer. 


70  THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

The  cypress  in  his  cloak  of  moss, 
That  watches  on  in  silent  gloom, 

Has  leaned  and  shaped  a  shadow-cross 
Above  the  nameless,  lowly  tomb. 

What  can  she  pray  for?     What  her  sin? 

What  folly  of  a  maid  so  fair? 

What  shadows  bind  the  wondrous  hair 
Of  one  who  prays  so  long  within? 

The  palm-trees  guard  in  regiment, 
Stand  right  and  left  without  the  gate, 
The  myrtle-moss  trees  wait  and  wait; 

The  tall  magnolia  leans  intent. 

The  cypress  trees,  on  gnarled  old  knees, 
Far  out  the  dank  and  marshy  deep 
Where  slimy  monsters  groan  and  creep, 

Kneel  with  her  in  their  marshy  seas. 

What  can  her  sin  be?    Who  shall  know? 

The  night  flies  by, — a  bird  on  wing; 
The  men  no  longer  to  and  fro 

Stride  up  and  down,  or  anything. 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.  / 

For  one  so  weary  and  so  old 

Has  hardly  strength  to  stride  or  stir; 
He  can  but  hold  his  bags  of  gold, — 

But  hug  his  gold  and  wait  for  her. 

The  two  stand  still, — stand  face  to  face. 
The  moon  slides  on;  the  midnight  air 
Is  perfumed  as  a  house  of  prayer — 

The  maiden  keeps  her  holy  place. 

Two  men!     And  one  is  gray,  but  one 
Scarce  lifts  a  full-grown  face  as  yet: 
With  light  foot  on  life's  threshold  set, 

Is  he  the  other's  sun-born  son? 

And  one  is  of  the  land  of  snow, 
And  one  is  of  the  land  of  sun; 
A  black-eyed  burning  youth  is  one, 

But  one  has  pulses  cold  and  slow: 

Ay,  cold  and  slow  from  clime  of  snow 
Where  Nature's  bosom,  icy  bound, 
Holds  all  her  forces,  hard,  profound, — 

Holds  close  where  all  the  South  lets  go. 


72  THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

Blame  not  the  sun,  blame  not  the  snows, 
God's  great  schoolhousc  for  all  is  clime, 
The  great  school-teacher,  Father  Time; 

And  each  has  borne  as  best  he  knows. 

At  last  the  elder  speaks, — he  cries, — 
He  speaks  as  if  his  heart  would  break; 

He  speaks  out  as  a  man  that  dies, — 
As  dying  for  some  lost  love's  sake: 

"  Come,  take  this  bag  of  gold,  and  go! 

Come,  take  one  bag!    See,  I  have  two! 
Oh,  why  stand  silent,  staring  so, 

When  I  would  share  my  gold  with  you? 

"  Come,  take  this  gold!    See  how  I  pray! 
See  how  I  bribe,  and  beg,  and  buy, — 
Ay,  buy!  buy  love,  as  you,  too,  may 
Some  day  before  you  come  to  die. 

"  God!  take  this  gold,  I  beg,  I  pray! 
I  beg  as  one  who  thirsting  cries 
For  but  one  drop  of  drink,  and  dies 
In  some  lone,  loveless  desert  way 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.  73 

"You  hesitate?    Still  hesitate? 

Stand  silent  still  and  mock  my  pain? 
Still  mock  to  see  me  wait  and  wait, 

And  wait  her  love,  as  earth  waits  rain?" 


v. 

0  broken  ship!    O  starless  shore! 

0  black  and  everlasting  night, 
Where  love  comes  never  any  more 

To  light  man's  way  with  heaven's  light. 

A  godless  man  with  bags  of  gold 

1  think  a  most  unholy  sight; 
Ah,  who  so  desolate  at  night 

Amid  death's  sleepers  still  and  cold? 

A  godless  man  on  holy  ground 
I  think  a  most  unholy  sight. 

1  hear  death  trailing  like  a  hound 
Hard  after  him,  and  swift  to  bite. 


VI. 

The  vast  moon  settles  to  the  west; 
Two  men  beside  a  nameless  tomb, 


74  THE  RHYME  OF    THE    GREAT    RIVER. 

And  one  would  sit  thereon  to  rest,— 
Ay,  rest  below,  if  there  was  room. 

What  is  this  rest  of  death,  sweet  friend? 

What  is  the  rising  up, — and  where? 

I  say,  death  is  a  lengthened  prayer, 
A  longer  night,  a  larger  end 

Hear  you  the  lesson  I  once  learned: 
I  died;  I  sailed  a  million  miles 
Through  dreamful,  flowery,  restful  isles, - 

She  was  not  there,  and  I  returned. 

I  say  the  shores  of  death  and  sleep 
Are  one;  that  when  we,  wearied,  come 
To  Lethe's  waters,  and  lie  dumb, 

'Tis  death,  not  sleep,  holds  us  to  keep. 

Yea,  we  lie  dead  for  need  of  rest, 
And  so  the  soul  drifts  out  and  o'er 
The  vast  still  waters  to  the  shore 

Beyond,  in  pleasant,  tranquil  quest: 

It  sails  straight  on,  forgetting  pain, 
Past  isles  of  peace,  to  perfect  rest, — 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.  75 

Now  were  it  best  abide,  or  best 
Return  and  take  up  life  again? 

And  that  is  all  of  death  there  is, 
Believe  me.     If  you  find  your  love 
In  that  far  land,  then  like  the  dove 

Abide,  and  turn  not  back  to  this. 

But  if  you  find  your  love  not  there; 
Or  if  your  feet  feel  sure,  and  you 
Have  still  allotted  work  to  do, — 

Why,  then  return  to  toil  and  care. 

Death  is  no  mystery.     Tis  plain 
If  death  be  mystery,  then  sleep 
Is  mystery  thrice  strangely  deep,— 

For  oh  this  coming  back  again! 

Austerest  ferryman  of  souls! 

I  see  the  gleam  of  solid  shores, 
I  hear  thy  steady  stroke  of  oars 

Above  the  wildest  wave  that  rolls. 

O  Charon,  keep  thy  sombre  ships! 
We  come,  with  neither  myrrh  nor  balm, 


76  THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT    RIVER. 

Nor  silver  piece  in  open  palm, 
But  lone  white  silence  on  our  lips. 


VII. 

She  prays  so  long!  she  prays  so  late! 
What  sin  in  all  this  flower-land 
Against  her  supplicating  hand 

Could  have  in  heaven  any  weight? 

Prays  she  for  her  sweet  self  alone? 
Prays  she  for  some  one  far  away, 
Or  some  one  near  and  dear  to-day, 

Or  some  poor,  lorn,  lost  soul  unknown? 

It  seems  to  me  a  selfish  thing 
To  pray  forever  for  one's  self; 
It  seems  to  me  like  heaping  pelf 

In  heaven  by  hard  reckoning. 

Why,  I  would  rather  stoop  and  bear 
My  load  of  sin,  and  bear  it  well 
And  bravely  down  to  burning  hell, 

Than  ever  pray  one  selfish  prayer! 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.  77 


VIII. 

The  swift  chameleon  in  the  gloom — 
This  silence  it  is  so  profund! — 
Forsakes  its  bough,  glides  to  the  ground, 

Then  up,  and  lies  across  the  tomb. 

It  erst  was  green  as  olive-leaf, 
It  then  grew  gray  as  myrtle  moss 
The  time  it  slid  the  moss  across; 

But  now  'tis  marble-white  with  grief. 

The  little  creature's  hues  are  gone; 
Here  in  the  pale  and  ghostly  light 
It  lies  so  pale,  so  panting  white, — 

White  as  the  tomb  it  lies  upon. 

The  two  men  by  that  nameless  tomb. 
And  both  so  still!    You  might  have  said 
These  two  men,  they  are  also  dead, 

And  only  waiting  here  for  room. 

How  still  beneath  the  orange-bough! 
How  tall  was  one,  how  bowed  was  one! 


78  THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

The  one  was  as  a  journey  done, 
The  other  as  beginning  now. 

And  one  was  young, — young  with  that  youth 
Eternal  that  belongs  to  truth; 
And  one  was  old, — old  with  the  years 
That  follow  fast  on  doubts  and  fears. 

And  yet  the  habit  of  command 
Was  his,  in  every  stubborn  part; 
No  common  knave  was  he  at  heart, 

Nor  his  the  common  coward's  hand. 

He  looked  the  young  man  in  the  face, 
So  full  of  hate,  so  frank  of  hate; 

The  other,  standing  in  his  place, 

Stared  back  as  straight  and  hard  as  fate. 

And  now  he  sudden  turned  away, 

And  now  he  paced  the  path,  and  now 

Came  back,  beneath  the  orange-bough 
Pale-browed,  'with  lips  as  cold  as  clay. 

As  mute  as  shadows  on  a  wall, 
As  silent  still,  as  dark  as  they, 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT    RIVER.  / 

Before  that  stranger,  bent  and  gray, 
The  youth  stood  scornful,  proud,  and  tall. 

He  stood,  a  tall  palmetto-tree 
With  Spanish  daggers  guarding  it; 
Nor  deed,  nor  word,  to  him  seemed  fit 

While  she  prayed  on  so  silently. 

He  slew  his  rival  with  his  eyes; 

His  eyes  were  daggers  piercing  deep, — 
So  deep  that  blood  began  to  creep 

From  their  deep  wounds  and  drop  wordwise: 

His  eyes  so  black,  so  bright  that  they 
Might  raise  the  dead,  the  living  slay, 
If  but  the  dead,  the  living,  bore 
Such  hearts  as  heroes  had  of  yore: 

Two  deadly  arrows  barbed  in  black, 
And  feathered,  too,  with  raven's  wing; 
Two  arrows  that  could  silent  sting, 

And  with  a  death-wound  answer  back. 

How  fierce  he  was!  how  deadly  still 
In  that  mesmeric,  hateful  stare 


8O  THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT    RIVER. 

Turned  on  the  pleading  stranger  there 
That  drew  to  him,  despite  his  will: 

So  like  a  bird  down-fluttering, 

Down,  down,  beneath  a  snake's  bright  eyes, 
He  stood,  a  fascinated  thing, 

That  hopeless,  unresisting,  dies. 

He  raised  a  hard  hand  as  before, 
Reached  out  the  gold,  and  offered  it 
With  hand  that  shook  as  ague-fit, — 

The  while  the  youth  but  scorned  the  more. 

"You  will  not  touch  it?     In  God's  name 
Who  are  you,  and  what  are  you,  then? 
Come,  take  this  gold,  and  be  of  men, — 
A  human  form  with  human  aim. 

"Yea,  take  this  gold, — she  must  be  mine 
She  shall  be  mine!  I  do  not  fear 
Your  scowl,  your  scorn,  your  soul  austere, 
The  living,  dead,  or  your  dark  sign. 

"I  saw  her  as  she  entered  there; 
I  saw  her,  and  uncovered  stood: 


•         THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.  8l 

The  perfume  of  her  womanhood 
Was  holy  incense  on  the  air. 

"She  left  behind  sweet  sanctity, 
Religion  lay  the  way  she  went; 
I  cried  I  would  repent,  repent  ! 
She  passed  on,  all  unheeding  me. 

"  Her  soul  is  young,  her  eyes  are  bright 
And  gladsome,  as  mine  own  are  dim; 
But,  oh,  I  felt  my  senses  swim 
The  time  she  passed  me  by  to-night ! — 

"  The  time  she  passed,  nor  raised  her  eyes 
To  hear  me  cry  I  would  repent, 
Nor  turned  her  head  to  hear  my  cries, 
But  swifter  went  the  way  she  went, — 

"Went  swift  as  youth,  for  all  these  years ! 
And  this  the  strangest  thing  appears, 
That  lady  there  seems  just  the  same, — 
Sweet  Gladys — Ah  !  you  know  her  name? 

"You  hear  her  name  and  start  that  I 

Should  name  her  dear  name  trembling  so? 


82  THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

Why,  boy,  when  I  shall  come  to  die 
That  name  shall  be  the  last  I  know. 

"That  name  shall  be  the  last  sweet  name 

My  lips  shall  utter  in  this  life! 
That  name  is  brighter  than  bright  flame, — 
That  lady  is  my  wedded  wife! 

"Ah,  start  and  catch  your  burning  breath! 
Ah,  start  and  clutch  your  deadly  knife! 
If  this  be  death,  then  be  it  death,— 
But  that  loved  lady  is  my  wife! 

"Yea,  you  are  stunned!  your  face  is  white, 

That  I  should  come  confronting  you, 
As  conies  a  lorn  ghost  of  the  night 
From  out  the  past,  and  to  pursue. 

"You  thought  me  dead?  You  shake  your  head, 

You  start  back  horrified  to  know 
That  she  is  loved,  that  she  Is  wed, 
That  you  have  sinned  in  loving  so. 

"Yet  what  seems  strange,  that  lady  there, 
Moused  in  the  holy  house  of  prayer, 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.  83 

Seems  just  the  same  for  all  her  tears, — 
For  all  my  absent  twenty  years. 

"Yea,  twenty  years  to  night,  to  night, 
Just  twenty  years  this  day,  this  hour, 
Since  first  I  plucked  that  perfect  flower, 
And  not  one  witness  of  the  rite. 

"Nay,  do  not  doubt, — I  tell  you  true! 
Her  prayers,  her  tears,  her  constancy 
Are  all  for  me,  are  all  for  me, — 
And  not  one  single  thought  for  you! 

"I  knew,  I  knew  she  would  be  here 

This  night  of  nights  to  pray  for  me! 
And  how  could  I  for  twenty  year 
Know  this  same  night  so  certainly? 

'Ah  me!  some  thoughts  that  we  would  drown 
Stick  closer  than  a  brother  to 
The  conscience,  and  pursue,  pursue 
Like  baying  hound  to  hunt  us  down. 

"And  then,  that  date  is  history; 

For  on  that  night  this  shore  was  shelled, 


84  THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

And  many  a  noble  mansion  felled, 
With  many  a  noble  family. 

"I  wore  the  blue  ;  I  watched  the  flight 

Of  shells,  like  stars  tossed  through  the  air, 
To  blow  your  hearth-stones — anywhere, 
That  wild,  illuminated  night. 

"Nay,  rage  befits  you  not  so  well  : 

Why,  you  were  but  a  babe  at  best, 
Your  cradle  some  sharp  bursted  shell 
That  tore,  maybe,  your  mother's  breast  ! 

"Hear  me  !  We  came  in  honored  war. 
The  risen  world  was  on  your  track  ! 
The  whole  North-land  was  at  our  back, 
From  Hudson's  bank  to  the  North  star  ! 

"And  from  the  North  to  palm-set  sea. 
The  splendid  fiery  cyclone  swept. 
Your  fathers  fell,  your  mothers  wept, 
Their  nude  babes  clinging  to  the  knee. 

"A  wide  and  desolated  track  : 
Behind,  a  path  of  ruin  lay  ; 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.  85 

Before,  some  women  by  the  way 
Stood  mutely  gazing,  clad  in  black. 

"From  silent  women  waiting  there 

Some  tears  came  down  like  still,  small  rain  ; 
Their  own  sons  on  the  battle  plain 
Were  now  but  viewless  ghosts  of  air. 

"Their  own  dear  daring  boys  in  gray, — 
They  should  not  see  them  any  more  ; 
Our  cruel  drums  kept  telling  o'er 
The  time  their  own  sons  went  away. 

"Through  burning  town,  by  bursting  shell — 
Yea,  I  remember  well  that  night  ; 
I  led  through  orange-lanes  of  light, 
As  through  some  hot  outpost  of  hell  ! 

"That  night  of  rainbow  shot  and  shell 
Sent  from  your  surging  river's  breast 
To  waken  me,  no  more  to  rest, — 
That  night  I  should  remember  well  ! 

"That  night  amid  the  maimed  and  dead, — 
A  night  in  history  set  down 


86  THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

By  light  of  many  a  burning  town, 
And  written  all  across  in  red, — 

"Her  father  dead,  her  brothers  dead, 

Her  home  in  flames, — what  else  could  she 
But  fly  all  helpless  here  to  me, 
A  fluttered  dove,  that  night  of  dread? 

"Short  time,  hot  time  had  I  to  woo 
Amid  the  red  shells'  battle-chime; 
But  women  rarely  reckon  time, 
And  perils  speed  their  love  when  true. 

"And  then  I  wore  a  captain's  sword; 
And,  too,  had  oftentime  before 
Doffed  cap  at  her  dead  father's  door, 
And  passed  a  soldier's  pleasant  word. 

"And  then — ah,  I  was  comely  then! 
I  bore  no  load  upon  my  back, 
I  heard  no  hounds  upon  my  track, 
But  stood  the  tallest  of  tall  men. 

"Her  father's  and  her  mother's  shrine, 
This  church  amid  the  orange  wood, 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.  87 

So  near  and  so  secure  it  stood, 
It  seemed  to  beckon  as  a  sign. 

"Its  white  cross  seemed  to  beckon  me: 

My  heart  was  strong,  and  it  was  mine 
To  throw  myself  upon  my  knee, 
To  beg  to  lead  her  to  this  shrine. 

"She  did  consent.     Through  lanes  of  light 
I  led  through  that  church-door  that  night — 
Let  fall  your  hand!     Take  back  your  face 
And  stand, — stand  patient  in  your  place! 

"She  loved  me;  and  she  loves  me  still. 
Yea,  she  clung  close  to  me  that  hour 
As  honey-bee  to  honey-flower, — 
And  still  is  mine,  through  good  or  ill. 

"The  priest  stood  there.    He  spake  the  prayer; 
He  made  the  holy,  mystic  sign. 
And  she  was  mine,  was  wholly  mine, — 
Is  mine  this  moment  I  will  swear! 

"Then  days,  then  nights,  of  vast  delight, — 
Then  came  a  doubtful,  later  day; 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

The  faithful  priest,  now  far  away, 
Watched  with  the  dying  in  the  fight: 

"The  priest  amid  the  dying,  dead, 
Kept  duty  on  the  battle-field, — 
That  midnight  marriage  unrevealed 
Kept  strange    thoughts  running  through  my 
head. 

"At  last  a  stray  ball  struck  the  priest: 
This  vestibule  his  chancel  was; 
And  now  none  lived  to  speak  her  cause, 
Record,  or  champion  her  the  least. 

"Hear  me!     I  had  been  bred  to  hate 

All  priests,  their  mummeries  and  all. 
Ah,  it  was  fate, — ah,  it  was  fate 
That  all  things  tempted  me  to  fall! 

"And  then  the  rattling  songs  we  sang 
Those  nights  when  rudely  revelling, — 
The  songs  that  only  soldiers  sing,— 
Until  the  very  tent-poles  rang! 

"What  is  the  rhyme  that  rhymers  say 
Of  maidens  born  to  be  betrayed 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.  89 

By  epaulettes  and  shining  blade, 
While  soldiers  love  and  ride  away? 

"And  then  my  comrades  spake  her  name 
Half  taunting,  with  a  touch  of  shame; 
Taught  me  to  hold  that  lily-flower 
As  some  light  pastime  of  the  hour. 

"And  then  the  ruin  in  the  land, 

The  death,  dismay,  the  lawlessness! 
Men  gathered  gold  on  every  hand, — 
Heaped  gold:  and  why  should  I  do  less? 

"The  cry  for  gold  was  in  the  air, 

For  Creole  gold,  for  precious  things; 

The  sword  kept  prodding  here  and  there 

Through  bolts  and  sacred  fastenings. 

"  'Get  gold!  get  gold!'    This  was  the  cry. 
And  I  loved  gold.     What  else  could  I 
Or  you,  or  any  earnest  one 
Born  in  this  getting  age  have  done? 

"With  this  one  lesson  taught  from  youth, 
And  ever  taught  us,  to  get  gold, — 


9O  THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

To  get  and  hold,  and  ever  hold, — 
What  else  could  I  have  done,  forsooth? 

"She,  seeing  how  I  sought  for  gold, — 
This  girl,  my  wife,  one  late  night  told 
Of  treasures  hidden  close  at  hand, 
In  her  dead  father's  mellow  land  ; 

"Of  gold  she  helped  her  brothers  hide 

Beneath  a  broad  banana  tree 
The  day  the  two  in  battle  died, 
The  night  she  dying  fled  to  me. 

"It  seemed  too  good ;  I  laughed  to  scorn 
Her  trustful  tale.     She  answered  not ; 
But  meekly  on  the  morrow  morn 
Two  massive  bags  of  bright  gold  brought. 

"And  when  she  brought  this  gold  to  me, 
Red  Creole  gold,  rich,  rare,  and  old, — 
When  I  at  last  had  gold,  sweet  gold, 
I  cried  in  very  ecstacy. 

"  Red  gold  !  rich  gold  !  two  bags  of  gold  ! 
The  two  stout  bags  of  gold  she  brought 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.  QI 

And  gave  with  scarce  a  second  thought, — 
Why,  her  two  hands  could  scarcely  hold  ! 

"Now  I  had  gold !  two  bags  of  gold  ! 
Two  wings  of  gold,  to  fly,  and  fly 
The  wide  world's  girth  ;  red  gold  to  hold 
Against  my  heart  for  aye  and  aye! 

"My  country's  lesson:  'Gold!  get  gold!' 
I  learned  it  well  in  land  of  snow; 
And  what  can  glow,  so  brightly  glow 
Long  winter  nights  of  northern  cold  ? 

"Ay,  now  at  last,  at  last  I  had 

The  one  thing,  all  fair  things  above 
My  land  had  taught  me  most  to  love  ! 
A  miser  now!  and  I  grew  mad. 

"With  these  two  bags  of  gold  my  own, 
I  then  began  to  plan  that  night 
For  flight,  for  far  and  sudden  flight, — 
For  flight ;  and,  too,  for  flight  alone. 

"I  feared  !   I  feared  !    My  heart  grew  cold, — 
Some  one  might  claim  this  gold  of  me  ! 


Q2     THE  RHVME  OF  THE  GREAT  RIVER. 

I  feared  her,— feared  her  purity- 
Feared  all  things  but  my  bags  of  gold. 

"  I  grew  to  hate  her  face,  her  creed, — 

That  face  the  fairest  ever  yet 
That  bowed  o'er  holy  cross  or  bead, 
Or  yet  was  in  God's  image  set. 

"  I  fled, — nay,  not  so  knavish  low 
As  you  have  fancied,  did  I  fly; 
I  sought  her  at  that  shrine,  and  I 
Told  her  full  frankly  I  should  go. 

"  I  stood  a  giant  in  my  power, — 
And  did  she  question  or  dispute? 
I  stood  a  savage,  selfish  brute, — 
She  bowed  her  head,  a  lily-flower. 

"  And  when  I  sudden  turned  to  go, 

And  told  her  I  should  come  no  more, 
She  bowed  her  head  so  low,  so  low, 
Her  vast  black  hair  fell  pouring  o'er. 

"And  that  was  all;  her  splendid  face 
Was  mantled  from  me,  and  her  night 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  GREAT  RIVER.     93 

Of  hair  half  hid  her  from  my  sight 
As  she  fell  moaning  in  her  place. 

"  And  there,  'mid  her  dark  night  of  hair, 
She  sobbed,  low  moaning  through  her  tears, 
That  she  would  wait,  wait  all  the  years, — 
Would  wait  and  pray  in  her  despair. 

"  Nay,  did  not  murmur,  not  deny, — 

She  did  not  cross  me  one  sweet  word! 
I  turned  and  fled:  I  thought  I  heard 
A  night-bird's  piercing  low  death-cry!  " 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  GREAT  RIVER. 


PART    II. 

he  moonlight  of  the  South! 
How  sweet  my  South  in  soft  moonlight! 
I  want  to  kiss  her  warm  sivcct  mouth 
As  she  lies  sleeping  here  to-night. 

How  still!  I  do  not  hear  a  mouse. 

I  see  some  bursting  buds  appear ; 

I  hear  God  in  His  garden, — hear 
Him  trim  some  flowers  for  His  house. 

I  hear  some  singing  stars;  the  mouth 
Of  my  vast  river  sings  and  sings, 
And  pipes  on  reeds  of  pleasant  things, — 

Of  splendid  promise  for  my  South: 

My  great  South-woman,  soon  to  rise 
And  tiptoe  up  and  loose  her  hair; 

Tiptoe,  and  take  from  all  the  skies 

Gocfs  stars  and  glorious  moon  to  ivearf 

94 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  GREAT  RIVER.     95 


I. 


THE  poet  shall  create  or  kill, 
Bid  heroes  live,  bid  braggarts  die, 
I  look  against  a  lurid  sky, — 

My  silent  South  lies  proudly  still. 

The  lurid  light  of  burning  lands 

Still  climbs   to  God's  house  overhead; 

Mute  women  wring  white  withered  hands; 
Their  eyes  are  red,  their  skies  arc  red. 

Poor  man!  still  boast  your  bitter  wars! 

Still  burn  and  burn,  and  burning  die. 
But  God's  white  finger  spins  the  stars 

In  calm  dominion  of  the  sky. 

And  not  one  ray  of  light  the  less 

Comes  down  to  bid  the  grasses  spring; 
No  drop  of  dew  nor  anything 

Shall  fail  for  all  your  bitterness. 

The  land  that  nursed  a  nation's  youth, 
Ye  burned  it,  sacked  it,  sapped  it  dry. 


96  THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

Yc  gave  it  falsehoods  for  its  truth, 
And  fame  was  fashioned  from  a  lie. 

If  man  grows  large,  is  God  the  less? 
The  moon  shall  rise  and  set  the  same, 
The  great  sun  spill  his  splendid  flame 

And  clothe  the  world  in  queenliness. 

And  from  that  very  soil  ye  trod 

Somelargc-soulcd  seeing  youth  shall  come 
Some  day,  and  he  shall  not  be  dumb 

Before  the  awful  court  of  God. 


ii. 


The  weary  moon  had  turned  away, 
The  far  North-Star  was  turning  pale 
To  hear  the  stranger's  boastful  tale 

Of  blood  and  flame  that  battle  day. 

And  yet  again  the  two  men  glared, 
Close  face  to  face  above  that  tomb; 
Each  seemed  as  jealous  of  the  room 

The  other  eager  waiting  shared. 


THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER.  97 

Again  the  man  began  to  say, — 
As  taking  up  some  broken  thread, 
As  talking  to  the  patient  dead, — 

The  Creole  was  as  still  as  they: 

"That  night  we  burned  yon  grass-grown  town, — 

The  grasses,  vines  are  reaching  up; 
The  ruins  they  are  reaching  down, 

As  sun-browned  soldiers  when  they  sup. 

"I  knew  her, — knew  her  constancy. 
She  said,  this  night  of  every  year 
She  here  would  come,  and  kneeling  here, 
Would  pray  the  live-long  night  for  me. 

"This  praying  seems  a  splendid  thing  ! 

It  drives  old  Time  the  other  way; 
It  makes  him  lose  all  reckoning 
Of  years  that  pagans  have  to  pay. 

"This  praying  seems  a  splendid  thing  ! 
It  makes  me  stronger  as  she  prays — 
But  oh  the  bitter,  bitter  days 

When  I  became  a  banished  thing  ! 
i 


98  THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

"I  fled,  took  ship, — I  fled  as  far 
As  far  ships  drive  tow'rd  the  North  Star: 
For  I  did  hate  the  South,  the  sun 
That  made  me  think  what  I  had  done. 

"I  could  not  see  a  fair  palm  tree 

In  foreign  land,  in  pleasant  place, 
But  it  would  whisper  of  her  face 
And  shake  its  keen,  sharp  blades  at  me. 

"Each  black-eyed  woman  would  recall 
A  lone  church-door,  a  face,  a  name, 
A  coward's  flight,  a  soldier's  shame: 
I  fled  from  woman's  face,  from  all. 

"I  hugged  my  gold,  my  precious  gold, 
Within  my  strong,  stout,  buckskin  vest. 
I  wore  my  bags  against  my  breast 
So  close  I  felt  my  heart  grow  cold. 

"I  did  not  like  to  see  it  now; 

I  did  not  spend  one  single  piece, 
I  travelled,  travelled  without  cease 
As  far  as  Russian  ship  could  plow. 


THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER.  99 

"And  when  my  own  scant  hoard  was  gone, 
And  I  had  reached  the  far  North-land, 
I  took  my  two  stout  bags  in  hand 
As  one  pursued,  and  journeyed  on. 

. 

"Ah,  I  was  weary!   I  grew  gray; 

I  felt  the  fast  years  slip  and  reel 
As  slip  black  beads  when  maidens  kneel 
At  altars  when  out-door  is  gay. 

"At  last  I  fell  prone  in  the  road, — 
Fell  fainting  with  my  cursed  load. 
A  skin-clad  cossack  helped  me  bear 
My  bags,  nor  would  one  shilling  share. 

"He  looked  at  me  with  proud  disdain, — 
He  looked  at  me  as  if  he  knew; 
His  black  eyes  burned  me  thro'  and  thro'; 
His  scorn  pierced  like  a  deadly  pain. 

"He  frightened  me  with  honesty; 
He  made  me  feel  so  small,  so  base, 
I  fled,  as  if  the  fiend  kept  chase, — 
The  fiend  that  claims  my  company! 


IOO         THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

"I  bore  my  load  alone;  I  crept 
Far  up  the  steep  and  icy  way; 
And  there,  before  a  cross  there  lay 
A  barefoot  priest,  who  bowed  and  wept. 

"I  threw  my  gold  right  down  and  sped 

Straight  on.     And,  oh,  my  heart  was  light! 
A  spring-time  bird  in  spring-time  flight 
Flies  not  so  happy  as  I  fled. 

"I  felt  somehow  this  monk  would  take 
My  gold,  my  load  from  off  my  back; 
Would  turn  the  fiend  from  off  my  track, 
Would  take  my  gold  for  sweet  Christ's  sake! 

"I  fled;  I  did  not  look  behind; 
I  fled,  fled  with  the  mountain  wind. 
At  last,  far  down  the  mountain's  base 
I  found  a  pleasant  resting-place. 

"I  rested  there  so  long,  so  well, 
More  grateful  than  all  tongues  can  tell. 
It  was  such  pleasant  thing  to  hear 
That  valley's  voices  calm  and  clear. 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.          IOI 

"That  valley  veiled  in  mountain  air, 

With  white  goats  on  the  hills  at  morn; 
That  valley  green  with  seas  of  corn, 
With  cottage  islands  here  and  there. 

"I  watched  the  mountain  girls.     The  hay 
They  mowed  was  not  more  sweet  than  they; 
They  laid  brown  hands  in  my  white  hair; 
They  marveled  at  my  face  of  care. 

"I  tried  to  laugh;  I  could  but  weep. 
I  made  these  peasants  one  request, — 
That  I  with  them  might  toil  or  rest, 
And  with  them  sleep  the  long,  last  sleep. 

"I  begged  that  I  might  battle  there, 
For  that  fair  valley-land,  for  those 
Who  gave  me  cheer  when  girt  with  foes, 
And  have  a  country,  loved  and  fair. 

"Where  is  that  spot  that  poets  name 

Our  country?  name  the  hallowed  land? 
Where  is  that  spot  where  man  must  stand 
Or  fall  when  girt  with  sword  and  flame? 


102         THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

"Where  is  that  one  permitted  spot? 

Where  is  the  one  place  man  must  fight? 
Where  rests  the  one  God-given  right 
To  fight,  as  ever  patriots  fought? 

"I  say  't  is  in  that  holy  house 

Where  God  first  set  us  down  on  earth: 
Where  mother  welcomed  us  at  birth, 
And  bared  her  breasts,  a  happy  spouse. 

"But  when  some  wrong,  some  deed  of  shame, 
Shall  make  that  land  no  more  our  own — 
Ah!  hunger  for  that  holy  name 
My  country,  I  have  truly  known! 

"The  simple  plough-boy  from  his  field 

Looks  forth.     He  sees  God's  purple  wall 
Encircling  him.     High  over  all 
The  vast  sun  wheels  his  shining  shield. 

"This  King,  who  makes  earth  what  it  is,— 
King  David  bending  to  his  toil! 
O  lord  and  master  of  the  soil, 
How  envied  in  thy  loyal  bliss! 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.          103 

"  Long  live  the  land  we  loved  in  youth, — 
That  world  with  blue  skies  bent  about, 
Where  never  entered  ifgly  doubt! 
Long  live  the  simple,  homely  truth! 

"  Can  true  hearts  love  some  far  snow-land, 
Some  bleak  Alaska  bought  with  gold? 
God's  laws  are  old  as  love  is  old; 
And  Home  is  something  near  at  hand. 

"Yea,  change  yon  river's  course;  estrange 
The  seven  sweet  stars;  make  hate  divide 
The  full  moon  from  the  flowing  tide, — 
But  this  old  truth  ye  can  not  change. 

"  I  begged  a  land  as  begging  bread; 
I  begged  of  these  brave  mountaineers 
To  share  their  sorrows,  share  their  tears; 
To  weep  as  they  wept,  with  their  dead. 

"They  did  consent.     The  mountain  town 

Was  mine  to  love,  and  valley  lands. 
That  night  the  barefoot  monk  came  down 
And  laid  my  two  bags  in  my  hands! 


IO4         THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

"  On!  on!     And,  oh,  the  load  I  bore! 

Why,  once  I  dreamed  my  soul  was  lead; 
Dreamed  once  it  \vas  a  body  dead! 
It  made  my  cold,  hard  bosom  sore. 

"  I  dragged  that  body  forth  and  back— 

0  conscience,  what  a  baying  hound! 
Nor  frozen  seas  nor  frosted  ground 

Can  throw  this  bloodhound  from  his   track. 

"In  farthest  Russia  I  lay  down 
A  dying  man,  at  last  to  rest; 

1  felt  such  load  upon  my  breast 
As  seamen  feel,  who  sinking  drown. 

"  That  night,  all  chill  and  desperate, 
I  sprang  up,  for  I  could  not  rest; 
I  tore  the  two  bags  from  my  breast, 
And  dashed  them  in  the  burning  grate. 

"  I  then  crept  back  into  my  bed; 

1  tried,  I  begged,  I  prayed  to  sleep; 
But  those  red,  restless  coins  would  keep 
Slow  dropping,  dropping,  and  blood  red. 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.          IO5 

"  I  heard  them  clink  and  clink  and  clink, — 

They  turned,  they  talked  within  that  grate. 
They  talked  of  her,  they  made  me  think 
Of  one  who  still  must  pray  and  wait. 

"And  when  the  bags  burned  crisp  and  black, 

Two  coins  did  start,  roll  to  the  floor, — 
Roll  out,  roll  on,  and  then  roll  back, 
As  if  they  needs  must  journey  more. 

"Ah,  then  I  knew  nor  change  nor  space, 

Nor  all  the  drowning  years  that  rolled 
Could  hide  from  me  her  haunting  face, 
Nor  still  that  red-tongued  talking  gold. 

"Again  I  sprang  forth  from  my  bed  ! 

I  shook  as  in  an  ague  fit; 
I  clutched  that  red  gold,  burning  red, 
I  clutched  as  if  to  strangle  it. 

"I  clutched  it  up — you  hear  me,  boy? — 

I  clutched  it  up  with  joyful  tears ! 

I  clutched  it  close,  with  such  wild  joy 

I  had  not  felt  for  years  and  years! 


106         THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

"Such  joy!  for  I  should  now  retrace 
My  steps,  should  see  my  land,  her  face; 
Bring  back  her  gold  this  battle  day, 
And  see  her,  see  her,  hear  her  pray! 

"  I  brought  it  back — you  hear  me,  boy?— 

I  clutch  it,  hold  it,  hold  it  now: 
Red  gold,  bright  gold  that  giveth  joy 
To  all,  and  anywhere  or  how; 

"  That  giveth  joy  to  all  but  me,— 
To  all  but  me,  yet  soon  to  all. 
It  burns  my  hands,  it  burns!  but  she 
Shall  ope  my  hands  and  let  it  fall. 

"  For  oh  I  have  a  willing  hand 

To  give  these  bags  of  gold;  to  see 

Her  smile  as  once  she  smiled  on  me 

Here  in  this  pleasant  warm  palm-land." 

He  ceased,  he  thrust  each  hard-clenched  fist, 
He  threw  his  gold  hard  forth  again, 

As  one  impelled  by  some  mad  pain 
He  would  not  or  could  not  resist. 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

The  Creole,  scorning,  turned  away, 
As  if  he  turned  from  that  lost  thief, 
The  one  that  died  without  belief 

That  awful  crucifixion  day. 


in. 


Believe  in  man,  nor  turn  away. 

Lo!  man  advances  year  by  year; 

Time  bears  him  upward,  and  his  sphere 
Of  life  must  broaden  day  by  day. 

Believe  in  man  with  large  belief; 
The  garnered  grain  each  harvest-time 
Hath  promise,  roundness,  and  full  prime 

For  all  the  empty  chaff  and  sheaf. 

Believe  in  man  with  proud  belief: 
Truth  keeps  the  bottom  of  her  well, 

And  when  the  thief  peeps  down,  the  thief 
Peeps  back  at  him,  perpetual. 

Faint  not  that  this  or  that  man  fell; 
For  one  that  falls  a  thousand  rise 


108         THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

To  lift  white  Progress  to  the  skies: 
Truth  keeps  the  bottom  of  her  well. 

Fear  not  for  man,  nor  cease  to  delve 
For  cool,  sweet  truth,  with  large  belief 

Lo!  Christ  himself  chose  only  twelve, 
Yet  one  of  these  turned  out  a  thief 


IV. 

Down  through  the  dark  magnolia  leaves 
Where  climbs  the  rose  of  Cherokee 
Against  the  orange-blossomed  tree, 

A  loom  of  moonlight  weaves  and  weaves, — 

A  loom  of  moonlight,  weaving  clothes 
From  snow-white  rose  of  Cherokee, 
And  bridal  blooms  of  orange-tree, 

For  fairy  folk  in  fragrant  rose. 

Down  through  the  mournful  myrtle  crape, 
Through  moving  moss,    through  ghostly 
gloom, 

A  long  white  moonbeam  takes  a  shape 
Above  a  nameless,  lowly  tomb; 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.          IOQ 

A  long  white  finger  through  the  gloom 
Of  grasses  gathered  round  about, — 
As  God's  white  finger  pointed  out 

A  name  upon  that  nameless  tomb. 


v. 


Her  white  face  bowed  in  her  black  hair, 
The  maiden  prays  so  still  within 
That  you  might  hear  a  falling  pin, — 

Ay,  hear  her  white  unuttered  prayer 

The  moon  has  grown  disconsolate, 

Has  turned  her  down  her  walk  of  stars: 
Why,  she  is  shutting  up  her  bars, 

As  maidens  shut  a  lover's  gate. 

The  moon  has  grown  disconsolate; 
She  will  no  longer  watch  and  wait. 
But  two  men  wait;  and  two  men  will 
Wait  on  till  morning,  mute  and  still: 

Still  wait  and  walk  among  the  trees, 
Quite  careless  if  the  moon  may  keep 


IIO         THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

Her  walk  along  her  starry  steep 
Above  the  Southern  pearl-sown  seas. 

They  know  no  moon,  or  set  or  rise 

Of  stars,  or  anything  to  light 
The  earth  or  skies,  save  her  dark  eyes, 

This  praying,  waking,  watching  night. 

They  move  among  the  tombs  apart, 
Their  eyes  turn  ever  to  that  door; 

They  know  the  worn  walks  there  by  heart— 
They  turn  and  walk  them  o'er  and  o'er.- 

They  are  not  wide,  these  little  walks 
For  dead  folk  by  this  crescent  town; 
They  lie  right  close  when  they  lie  down, 

As  if  they  kept  up  quiet  talks. 


VI. 


The  two  men  keep  their  paths  apart; 
But  more  and  more  begins  to  stoop 
The  man  with  gold,  as  droop  and  droop 

Tall  plants  with  something  at  their  heart. 


THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER.          Ill 

Now  once  again  with  eager  zest 
He  offers  gold  with  silent  speech; 
The  other  will  not  walk  in  reach, 

But  walks  around,  as  round  a  pest. 

« 

His  dark  eyes  sweep  the  scene  around, 
His  young  face  drinks  the  fragrant  air, 
His  dark  eyes  journey  everywhere, — 

The  other's  cleave  unto  the  ground. 

It  is  a  weary  walk  for  him, 

For  oh  he  bears  a  weary  load! 

He  does  not  like  that  narrow  road 
Between  the  dead — it  is  so  dim: 

It  is  so  dark,  that  narrow  place, 

Where  graves  lie  thick,  like  yellow  leaves: 
Give  us  the  light  of  Christ  and  grace, 
Give  light  to  garner  in  the  sheaves. 

Give  light  of  love;  for  gold  is  cold, 

And  gold  is  cruel  as  a  crime; 

It  gives  no  light  at  such  sad  time 
As  when  man's  feet  wax  weak  and  old. 


112         THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

Ay,  gold  is  heavy,  hard,  and  cold! 

And  have  I  said  this  thing  before? 

Well,  I  will  tell  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
'Tvvere  need  be  told  ten  thousand  fold. 

"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,"- 
Get  this  of  God,  then  all  the  rest 
Is  housed  in  thine  own  honest  breast, 
If  you  but  lift  a  lordly  head. 


VII. 

Oh,  I  have  seen  men,  tall  and  fair, 

Stoop  down  their  manhood  with  disgust, 
Stoop  down  God's  image  to  the  dust, 

To  get  a  load  of  gold  to  bear; 

Have  seen  men  selling  day  by  day 
The  glance  of  manhood  that  God  gave: 
To  sell  God's  image  as  a  slave 

Might  sell  some  little  pot  of  clay! 

Behold!  here  in  this  green  graveyard 
A  man  with  gold  enough  to  fill 


THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER.          113 

A  coffin,  as  a  miller's  till; 
And  yet  his  path  is  hard,  so  hard! 

His  feet  keep  sinking  the  sand, 
And  now  so  near  an  opened  grave! 
He  seems  to  hear  the  solemn  wave 

Of  dread  oblivion  at  hand. 

The  sands,  they  grumble  so,  it  seems 
As  if  he  walks  some  shelving  brink, 
He  tries  to  stop,  he  tries  to  think, 

He  tries  to  make  believe  he  dreams: 

Why,  he  is  free  to  leave  the  land, 
The  silver  moon  is  white  as  dawn; 
Why,  he  has  gold  in  either  hand, 

Has  silver  ways  to  walk  upon. 

And  who  should  chide,  or  bid  him  stay? 

Or  taunt,  or  threat,  or  bid  him  fly? 
The  world's  for  sale  I  hear  men  say, 

And  yet  this  man  has  gold  to  buy. 

Buy  what?    Buy  rest?    He  could  not  rest! 
Buy  gentle  sleep?    He  could  not  sleep, 


114         THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

Though  all  these  graves  were  wide  and  deep 
As  their  wide  mouths  with  the  request. 

Buy  Love,  buy  faith,  buy  snow-white  truth? 

Buy  moonlight,  sunlight,  present,  past? 
Buy  but  one  brimful  cup  of  youth 

That  calm  souls  drink  of  to  the  last? 

O  God!  't  is  pitiful  to  see 

This  miser  so  forlorn  and  old! 
O  God!  how  poor  a  man  may  be 

With  nothing  in  this  world  but  gold! 


VIII. 

The  broad  magnolia's  blooms  are  white; 

Her  blooms  are  large,  as  if  the  moon 
Had  lost  her  way  some  lazy  night, 

And  lodged  here  till  the  afternoon. 

Oh,  vast  white  blossoms  breathing  love! 
White  bosom  of  my  lady  dead, 
In  your  white  heaven  overhead 

I  look,  and  learn  to  look  above. 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.          11 
IX. 

All  night  the  tall  magnolia  kept 

Kind  watch  above  the  nameless  tomb: 
Two  shapes  kept  waiting  in  the  gloom 

And  gray  of  morn,  where  roses  wept. 

The  dew- wet  roses  wept;  their  eyes 

All  dew,  their  breath  as  sweet  as  prayer. 
And  as  they  wept  the  dead  down  there 

Did  feel  their  tears  and  hear  their  sighs. 

The  grass  uprose  as  if  afraid 

Some  stranger  foot  might  press  too  near; 

Its  every  blade  was  like  a  spear 
Its  every  spear  a  living  blade. 

The  grass  above  that  nameless  tomb 

Stood  all  arrayed,  as  if  afraid 
Some  weary  pilgrim  seeking  room 

And  rest,  might  lay  where  she  was  laid. 


x. 

'Twas  morn,  and  yet  it  was  not  morn; 
'T  was  morn  in  heaven,  not  on  earth,- 


Il6         THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

A  star  was  singing  of  a  birth, 
Just  saying  that  a  day  was  born. 

The  marsh  hard  by  that  bound  the  lake, — 
The  great  low  sea-lake,  Ponchartrain, 
Shut  off  from  sultry  Cuban  main, — 

Drew  up  its  legs,  as  half  awake. 

Drew  long  stork  legs,  long  legs  that  steep 
In  slime  where  aligators  creep, — 
Drew  long  green  legs  that  stir  the  grass, 
As  when  the  late  lorn  night-winds  pass. 

Then  from  the  marsh  came  croakings  low, 
Then  louder  croaked  some  sea-marsh  beast; 
Then,  far  away  against  the  east, 

God's  rose  of  morn  began  to  grow. 

From  out  the  marsh,  against  that  east, 
A  ghostly  moss-swept  cypress  stood; 
With  ragged  arms  above  the  wood 

It  rose,  a  God-forsaken  beats. 

It  seemed  so  frightened  where  it  rose! 
The  moss-hung  thing  it  seemed  to  wave 


THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER.          117 

The  worn-out  garments  of  the  grave, — 
To  wave  and  wave  its  old  grave-clothes. 

Close  by,  a  cow  rose  up  and  lowed 

From  out  a  palm-thatched  milking-shed. 

A  black  boy  on  the  river  road 

Fled  sudden,  as  the  night  had  fled: 

A  nude  black  boy,  a  bit  of  night 
That  had  been  broken  off  and  lost 
From  flying  night,  the  time  it  crossed 

The  surging  river  in  its  flight: 

A  bit  of  darkness,  following 
The  sable  night  on  sable  wing, — 
A  bit  of  darkness  stilled  with  fear, 
Because  that  nameless  tomb  was  near. 

Then  holy  bells  came  pealing  out; 

Then  steamboats  blew,  then  horses  neighed; 
Then  smoke  from  hamlets  round  about 

Crept  out,  as  if  no  more  afraid. 

Thenshrill  cocks  here,  and  shrill  cocks  there, 
Stretched  glossy  necks  and  filled  the  air. 


IlS         THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

How  many  cocks  it  takes  to  make 
A  country  morning  well  awake! 

Then  many  boughs,  with  many  birds,— 
Young  boughs  in  green,  old  boughs  in  gray 
These  birds  had  very  much  to  say 

In  their  soft,  sweet,  familiar  words. 

And  all  seemed  sudden  glad;  the  gloom 
Forgot  the  church,  forgot  the  tomb; 
And  yet  like  monks  with  cross  and  bead 
The  myrtles  leaned  to  read  and  read. 

And  oh  the  fragrance  of  the  sod! 

And  oh  the  perfume  of  the  air! 

The  sweetness,  sweetness  everywhere, 
That  rose  like  incense  up  to  God! 

I  like  a  cow's  breath  in  sweet  spring, 
I  like  the  breath  of  babes  new-born; 

A  maid's  breath  is  a  pleasant  thing, — 
But  oh  the  breath  of  sudden  morn! 

Of  sudden  morn,  when  every  pore 
Of  mother  earth  is  pulsing  fast 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.         IIQ 

With  life,  and  life  seems  spilling  o'er 
With  love,  with  love  too  sweet  to  last: 

Of  sudden  morn  beneath  the  sun, 

By  God's  great  river  wrapped  in  gray, 

That  for  a  space  forgets  to  run, 
And  hides  his  face  as  if  to  pray. 


XI. 


The  black-eyed  Creole  kept  his  eyes 
Turned  to  the  door,  as  eyes  might  turn 
To  see  the  holy  embers  burn 

Some  sin  away  at  sacrifice. 

Full  dawn!  but  yet  he  knew  no  dawn, 
Nor  song  of  bird,  nor  bird  on  wing, 
Nor  breath  of  rose,  nor  anything 

Her  fair  face  lifted  not  upon. 

And  yet  he  taller  stood  with  morn; 
His  bright  eyes,  brighter  than  before, 
Burned  fast  against  that  fastened  door, 

His  proud  lips  lifting  up  with  scorn, — 


I2O         THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

With  lofty,  silent  scorn  for  one 

Who  all  night  long  had  plead  and  plead, 
With  none  to  witness  but  the  dead 

How  he  for  gold  must  be  undone. 

Oh,  ye  who  feed  a  greed  for  gold, 

And  barter  truth,  and  trade  sweet  youth 

For  cold  hard  gold,  behold,  behold! 
Behold  this  man!  behold  this  truth! 

Why,  what  is  there  in  all  God's  plan 
Of  vast  creation,  high  or  low, 
By  sea  or  land,  by  sun  or  snow, 

So  mean,  so  miserly  as  man? 

Lo,  earth  and  heaven  all  let  go 
Their  garnered  riches,  year  by  year  ! 

The  treasures  of  the  trackless  snow, 
Ah,  hast  thou  seen  how  very  dear  ? 

The  wide  earth  gives,  gives  golden  grain, 
Gives  fruits  of  gold,  gives  all,  gives  all  ! 
Hold  forth  your  hand,  and  these  shall  fall 

In  your  full  palm  as  free  as  rain. 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.         121 

Yea,  earth  is  generous.    The  trees 
Strip  nude  as  birth-time  without  fear, 
And  their  reward  is  year  by  year 

To  feel  their  fulness  but  increase. 

The  law  of  Nature  is  to  give, 
To  give,  to  give  !  and  to  rejoice 
In  giving  with  a  generous  voice, 

And  so  trust  God  and  truly  live. 

But  see  this  miser  at  the  last,— 
This  man  who  loves,  grasps  hold  of  gold, 
Who  grasps  it  with  such  eager  hold, 

To  hold  forever  hard  and  fast  : 

As  if  to  hold  what  God  lets  go  ; 
As  if  to  hold,  while  all  around 
Lets  go.  and  drops  upon  the  ground 

All  things  as  generous  as  snow. 

Let  go  your  greedy  hold,  I  say  ! 
Let  go  your  hold  !   Do  not  refuse 
'Till  death  comes  by  and  shakes  you  loose, 

And  sends  you  shamed  upon  your  way. 


122         THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

What  if  the  sun  should  keep  his  gold  ? 

The  rich  moon  lock  her  silver  up  ? 

What  if  the  gold-clad  buttercup 
Became  a  miser,  mean  and  old  ? 

Ah,  me  !  the  coffins  are  so  true 

In  all  accounts,  the  shrouds  so  thin, 

That  down  there  you  might  sew  and  sew, 
Nor  ever  sew  one  pocket  in. 

And  all  that  you  can  hold  of  lands 

Down  there,  below  the  grass,  down  there, 
Will  only  be  that  little  share 

You  hold  in  your  two  dust-full  hands. 


XII. 

She  comes!  she  comes!     The  stony  floor 
Speaks  out!     And  now  the  rusty  door 
At  last  has  just  one  word  this  day, 
With  mute  religious  lips,  to  say. 

She  comes!  she  comes!     And  lo,  her  face 
Is  upward,  radiant,  fair  as  prayer! 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.          123 

So  pure  here  in  this  holy  place, 
Where  holy  peace  is  everywhere. 

Her  upraised  face,  her  face  of  light 
And  loveliness,  from  duty  done, 
Is  like  a  rising  orient  sun 

That  pushes  back  the  brow  of  night. 

How  brave,  how  beautiful  is  truth! 

Good  deeds  untold  are  like  to  this. 

But  fairest  of  all  fair  things  is 
A  pious  maiden  in  her  youth: 

A  pious  maiden  as  she  stands 

Just  on  the  threshold  of  the  years 

That  throb  and  pulse  with  hopes  and  fears, 

And  reaches  God  her  helpless  hands. 

How  fair  is  she!     How  fond  is  she! 

Her  foot  upon  the  threshold  there. 
Her  breath  is  as  a  blossomed  tree, — 

This  maiden  mantled  in  her  hair! 

Her  hair,  her  black,  abundant  hair, 
Where  night,  inhabited  all  night 


124         THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

And  all  this  day,  will  not  take  flight, 
But  finds  content  and  houses  there. 

Her  hands  are  clasped,  her  two  small  hands: 
They  hold  the  holy  book  of  prayer 
Just  as  she  steps  the  threshold  there, 

Clasped  downward  where  she  silent  stands. 


XIII. 

Once  more  she  lifts  her  lowly  face, 
And  slowly  lifts  her  large,  dark  eyes 
Of  wonder,  and  in  still  surprise 

She  looks  full  forward  in  her  place. 

She  looks  full  forward  on  the  air 
Above  the  tomb,  and  yet  below 
The  fruits  of  gold,  the  blooms  of  snow, 

As  looking — looking  anywhere. 

She  feels — she  knows  not  what  she  feels; 

It  is  not  terror,  is  not  fear, 
But  there  is  something  that  reveals 

A  presence  that  is  near  and  dear. 


THE    RHYME  OF   THE    GREAT    RIVER.          125 

She  does  not  let  her  eyes  fall  down, 
They  lift  against  the  far  profound: 

Against  the  blue  above  the  town 

Two  wide-winged  vultures  circle  round. 

Two  brown  birds  swim  above  the  sea, — 
Her  large  eyes  swim  as  dreamily 
And  follow  far,  and  follow  high, 
Two  circling  black  specks  in  the  sky. 

One  forward  step, — the  closing  door 
Creaks  out,  as  frightened  or  in  pain; 
Her  eyes  are  on  the  ground  again — 

Two  men  are  standing  close  before. 

"  My  love,"  sighs  one,  "  my  life,  my  all!  " 
Her  lifted  foot  across  the  sill 
Sinks  down, — and  all  things  are  so  still 
You  hear  the  orange  blossoms  fall. 

But  fear  comes  not  where  duty  is, 
And  purity  is  peace  and  rest; 
Her  cross  is  close  upon  her  breast, 

Her  two  hands  clasp  hard  hold  of  this. 


126         THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

Her  two  hands  clasp  cross,  book,  and  she 

Is  strong  in  tranquil  purity, — 

Ay,  strong  as  Samson  when  he  laid 

His  two  hands  forth,  and  bowed  and  prayed. 

One  at  her  left,  one  at  her  right, 
And  she  between,  the  steps  upon,— 

I  can  but  see  that  Syrian  night, 
The  women  there  at  early  dawn. 

'T  is  strange,  I  know,  and  may  be  wrong, 
But,  ever,  pictured  in  my  song; 
And  rhyming  on,  I  see  the  day 
They  came  to  roll  the  stone  away. 


XIV. 

The  sky  is  like  an  opal  sea, 

The  air  is  like  the  breath  of  kine, 

But,  oh,  her  face  is  white  and  she 
Leans  faint  to  see  a  lifted  sign, — 

To  see  two  hands  lift  up  and  wave 
To  see  a  face  so  white  with  woe, 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.          127 

So  ghastly,  hollow,  white  as  though 
It  had  that  moment  left  the  grave. 

Her  sweet  face  at  that  ghostly  sign, 
Her  fair  face  in  her  weight  of  hair, 
Is  like  a  white  dove  drowning  there,  — 

A  white  dove  drowned  in  Tuscan  wine. 

He  tries  to  stand,  to  stand  erect, 

Tis  gold,  'tis  gold  that  holds  him  down! 
And  soul  and  body  both  must  drown,— 

Two  millstones  tied  about  his  neck. 

Now  once  again  his  piteous  face 
Is  raised  to  her  face  reaching  there. 
He  prays  such  piteous,  silent  prayer, 

As  prays  a  dying  man  for  grace. 

It  is  not  good  to  see  him  strain 
To  lift  his  hands,  to  gasp,  to  try 
To  speak.     His  parched  lips  are  so  dry 

Their  sight  is  as  a  living  pain. 

I  think  that  rich  man  down  in  hell 
Some  like  this  old  man  with  his  gold, — 


128         THE    RHYME    OF    THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

To  gasp  and  gasp  perpetual 

Like  to  this  minute  I  have  told. 


xv. 

At  last  the  miser  cries  his  pain, — 
A  shrill,  wild  cry,  as  if  a  grave 
Just  ope'd  its  stony  lips  and  gave 

One  sentence  forth,  then  closed  again. 

"  'Twas  twenty  years  last  night,  last  night!" 

His  lips  still  moved,  but  not  to  speak; 
His  outstretched  hands  so  trembling  weak 
Were  beggar's  hands  in  sorry  plight. 

His  face  upturned  to  hers,  his  lips 
Kept  talking  on,  but  gave  no  sound; 
His  feet  were  cloven  to  the  ground; 

Like  iron  hooks  his  finger  tips. 

"  Ay,  twenty  years,"  she  sadly  sighed: 
"I  promised  mother  every  year, 
That  I  would  pray  for  father  here, 
As  she  had  prayed,  the  night  she  died: 


THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER.         I2Q 

"To  pray  as  she  prayed,  fervidly; 

As  she  had  promised  she  would  pray 
The  sad  night  of  her  marriage  day, 
For  him,  wherever  he  might  be." 

Then  she  was  still ;  then  sudden  she 
Let  fall  her  eyes,  and  so  outspake 
As  if  her  very  heart  would  break, 

Her  proud  lips  trembling  piteously: 

"And  whether  he  comes  soon  or  late 

To  kneel  beside  this  nameless  grave, 
May  God  forgive  my  father's  hate 
As  I  forgive,  as  she  forgave!" 

He  saw  the  stone  ;  he  understood, 
With  that  quick  knowledge  that  will  come 
Most  quick  when  men  are  made  most  dumb 

With  terror  that  stops  still  the  blood. 

And  then  a  blindness  slowly  fell 
On  soul  and  body;  but  his  hands 
Held  tight  his  bags,  two  iron  bands, 

As  if  to  bear  them  into  hell. 


13'J         THE    RHYME    OF   THE    GREAT  RIVER. 

He  sank  upon  the  nameless  stone 
With,  oh,  such  sad,  such  piteous  moan 
As  never  man  might  seek  to  know 
From  man's  most  unforgiving  foe. 

He  sighed  at  last,  so  long,  so  deep, 
As  one's  heart  breaking  in  one's  sleep, — 
One  long,  last,  weary,  willing  sigh, 
As  if  it  were  a  grace  to  die. 

And  then  his  hands,  like  loosened  bands, 
Hung  down,  hung  down  on  either  side; 
His  hands  hung  down  and  opened  wide: 

He  rested  in  the  orange  lands. 


ISLES  OF  THE  AMAZONS. 


PART  I. 

~J     PRIMEVAL  forests!  virgin  sod.' 
-*-  That  Saxon  has  not  ravished  yet 

Lo!  peak  on  peak  in  stairways  set-- 
In stepping  stairs  that  reach  to  God! 
Here  -we  arc  free  as  sea  or  -wind. 
For  here  are  set  Time's  snowy  tents 
In  everlasting'  battlements 
Against  the  march  of  Saxon  mind. 

FAR  up  in  the  hush  of  the  Amazon  River, 
And   mantled   and   hung   in   the   tropical 

trees, 

There  are  isles  as  grand  as  the  isles  of  the  seas 
And  the  waves  strike  strophes,  and  keen  reeds 

quiver, 
As  the  sudden  canoe  shoots  a-past  them  and 

over 

The  strong,  still  tide  to  the  opposite  shore, 
Where  the  blue-eyed  men  by  the  sycamore 
Sit  mending  their  nets  'neath  the  vine-twined 
cover; 

131 


132  ISLES    OF    THE   AMAZONS. 

Sit  weaving  their  threads  of  bark  and  grasses, 
They  wind  and  they  spin,  on  the  clumsy 

wheel, 
Into  hammocks  red-hued  with  the  cochineal, 

To  trade  with  the  single  black  ship  that  passes, 

With  foreign  old  freightage  of  curious  old  store, 
And  as  still  and  as  slow  as  if  half  asleep,— 
A  cunning  old  trader  that  loves  to  creep 

Above  and  a-down  in  the  shade  of  the  shore. 

And  the   blue-eyed   men  that  are  mild   as  the 

dawns — 

Oh,  delicate  dawns  of  the  grand  Andes! — 
Lift  up  soft  eyes  that  are  deep  like  seas, 

And  mild  yet  wild  as  the  red-white  fawns'; 

And  they   gaze   into   yours,  then   weave,  then 

listen, 

Then  look  in  wonder,  then  again  weave  on, 
Then  again  look  wonder  that  you  are  not  gone, 
While  the  keen  reeds  quiver  and  the  bent  waves 
glisten; 

But  they  say  no  words  while   they  weave  and 
wonder, 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  133 

Though  they  sometimes  sing,  voiced  low  like 

the  dove, 

And  as  deep  and  as  rich  as  their  tropical  love, 
A-weaving  their  net  threads  through  and  under. 

Yea,   a  pure,  true    people  you   may  trust  are 

these, 
That   weave  their  threads  where  the    quick 

leaves  quiver; 

And  this  is  their  tale  of  the  Isles  of  the  river, 
And  the  why  that   their   eyes  are  so  blue  like 

seas, 

And  the  why  that  the  men  draw  water  and  bear 
The  wine  or  the  water  in  the  wild  boar  skin, 
And  do  live  in  the  woods  and  do  weave  and 

spin, 

And  so  bear  with  the  women  full  burthen  and 
share. 

A  curious  old  tale  of  a  curious  old  time, 

That  is  told  you  betimes  by  a  quaint  old  crone, 
Who  sits  on  the  rim  of  an  island  alone, 

As  ever  was  told  you  in  story  or  rhyme. 

Her  brown,  bare  feet  dip  down  to  the  river, 
And  dabble  and  plash  to  her  monotone  tone, 


134  ISLES   OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

As   she  holds  in  her  hands  a  strange  green 

stone, 

And  talks  to  the  boat   where   the   bent   reeds 
quiver. 

And  the  quaint  old  crone  has  a  singular  way 
Of  holding  her  head  to  the  side  and  askew, 
And  smoothing  the  stone  in  her  palms  all  day 

As  saying  "I've  nothing  at  all  for  you," 

Until  you  have  anointed  her  palm,  and  you 
Have  touched   on   the   delicate   spring  of  a 

door 
That  silver  has  opened  perhaps  before; 

For  woman  is  woman  the  wide  world  through. 

The  old  near  truth  on  the  far  new  shore 
I  bought  and  I  paid  for  it;  so  did  you: 
The  tale  may  be  false  or  the  tale  may  be  true; 

I  give  it  as  I  got  it,  and  who  can  more? 

If  I  have  made  journeys  to  difficult  shores, 
And  woven  delusions  in  innocent  verse, 
If  none  be  the  wiser,  why,  who  is  the  worse? 

The  field  it  was  mine,  the  fruit  it  is  yours. 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS. 


A  sudden  told  tale.     You  may  read  as  you  run. 
A  part  of  it  hers,  some  part  is  my  own, 
Crude,  and  too  carelessly  woven  and  sown, 

As  I  sail'd  on  the  Mexican  seas  in  the  sun. 


'Twas  nations  ago,  when  the  Amazons  were, 
That  a  fair  young  knight — says  the  quaint 

old  crone, 
With  her  head  sidewise,  as  she  smoothes  at 

the  stone — 

Came  over  the  seas,  with  his  golden  hair, 
And  a  great  black  steed,  and  glittering  spurs, 
And  a  sword  that  had  come  from  crusaders 

down, 

And  a  womanly  face  in  a  manly  frown, 
And  a  heart  as  tender  and  as  true  as  hers. 


And  fairest,  and  foremost  in  love  as  in  war 
Was  the  brave  young  knight   of  the  brave 

old  days. 

Of  all  the  knights,  with  their  knightly  ways, 
That  had  journey'd  away  to  the  world  afar 
In  the  name  of  Spain;  of  the  splendid  few 
Who  bore  her  banner  in  the  new-born  world, 


136  ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZCNS. 

From  the  sea  rim   up  to  where  clouds  are 

curl'd, 
And  the  condors  beat  their  wings  in  the  blue. 

He  was  born,  says  the  crone,  where  the  brave 

are  fair, 
And  blown  from  the  banks  of  the  Guadal- 

quiver, 

And  yet  blue-eyed,  with  the  Celt's  soft  hair, 
With  never  a  drop  of  the  dark,  deep  river 
Of  Moorish  blood  that  had  swept  through  Spain, 
And  plash'd  the  world  with  its  tawny  stain. 

His  heart  it  rebell'd  and  arose  with  pity; 
He  sat  on  his  steed,  and  his  sword  was  bloody 

With  heathen  blood:  the  battle  was  done; 
And  crown'd  in  fire,  wreathed  and  ruddy 

With  antique  temples  built  up  to  the  sun, 
Below  on  the  plain  lay  the  beautiful  city 

At  the  conqueror's  feet;  the  red  street  strewn 

With  dead,  with  gold,  and  with  gods  over- 
thrown. 

He  raised  his  head  with  a  proud  disdain, 
He  rein'd  his  steed  on  the  reeking  plain, 
As  the  heathen  pour'd,  in  a  helpless  flood, 


ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS.  137 

With  never  a  wail  and  with  never  a  blow, 
At  last,  to  even  provoke  a  toe, 
Through  gateways,  wet  with  the  pagan's  blood. 

"Ho,  forward!  smite!"  but  the  minstrel  linger'd, 
He  reach'o  his  hand  and  he  touch'd  the  rein, 

He  humm'd  an  air,  and  he  toy'd  and  finger'd 
The  arching  neck  and  the  glossy  mane. 

He  rested  the  heel,  he  rested  the  hand, 
Though  the  thing  was  death  to  the  man  to  dare 
To  doubt,  to  question,  to  falter  there, 

Nor  heeded  at  all  to  the  hot  command. 

He  wiped  his  steel  on  his  black  steed's  mane, 
He  sheathed  it  deep,  then  look'd  at  the  sun, 
Then  counted  his  comrades,  one  by  one, 

With  booty  return'd  from  the  plunder'd  plain. 

He  lifted  his  face  to  the  flashing  snow, 
He  lifted  his  shield  of  steel  as  he  sang, 
And  he  flung  it  away  till  it  clang'd  and  rang 

On  the  granite  rocks  in  the  plain  below, 

Then  cross'd  his  bosom.     Made  overbold, 


138  ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS. 

He  lifted  his  voice  and  sang,  quite  low 
At  first,  then  loud  in  the  long  ago, 
When  a  love  endured  though  the  days  grew  old. 

They  heard  his  song,  the  chief  on  the  plain 
Stood  up  in  his  stirrups,  and,  sword  in  hand, 
He  cried  and  he  call'd  with  a  loud  command 

To  the  blue-eyed  boy  to  return  again; 
To  lift  his  shield  again  to  the  sky, 
And  come  and  surrender  his  sword  or  die. 

He  wove  his  hand  in  the  stormy  mane, 
He  lean'd  him  forward,  he  lifted  the  rein, 
He  struck  the  flank,  he  wheel'd  and  sprang, 

And  gaily  rode  in  the  face  of  the  sun, 
And  bared  his  sword  and  he  bravely  sang, 

"Ho !  come  and  take  it !"  but  there  came  not 
one. 

And  so  he  sang  with  his  face  to  the  south: 
"I  shall  go;  I  shall  search  for  the  Amazon 

shore, 
Where  the  curses  of   man  they  are  heard  no 

more, 
And  kisses  alone  shall  embrace  the  mouth. 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  139 

"I  shall  journey  in  search  of  the  Incan  Isles, 
Go  far  and  away  to  traditional  land, 

Where  Love  is  a  queen  in  a  crown  of  smiles, 
And  battle  has  never  imbrued  a  hand; 

"Where  man  has  never  despoil'd  or  trod, 
Where  woman's  hand  with  a  woman's  heart 
Has  fashion'd  an  Eden  from  man  apart, 

And  she  walks  in  her  garden  alone  with  God. 

"I  shall  seek  that  Eden,  and  all  my  years 
Shall  sit  and  repose,  shall  sing  in  the  sun; 
And  the  tides  may  rest  or  the  tides  may  run, 

And  men  may  water  the  world  with  tears: 

"And  the  years  may  come  and  the  years  may  go, 
And  men  make  war,  may  slay  and  be  slain, 

But  I  not  care,  for  I  never  shall  know 
Of  man,  or  of  aught  that  is  man's  again. 

41  The  waves  may  battle,  the  winds  may  blow,    , 
The  mellow  rich  moons  may  ripen  and  fall, 
The  seasons  of  gold  they  may  gather  or  go, 
The  mono  may  chatter,  the  paroquet  call, 
And  who  shall  take  heed,  take  note,  or  shall 
know 


I4O  JSLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

If  the  Fates  befriend,  or  if  ill  befall, 
Of  worlds  without,  or  of  worlds  at  all, 
Of  heaven  above,  or  of  hades  below." 

'Twas  the  song  of  a  dream  and  the  dream  of  a 

singer, 
Drawn  fine  as  the  delicate  fibres  of  gold, 

And  broken  in  two  by  the  touch  of  a  finger, 
And  blown  as  the  winds  blow,  rent  and  roll'd 
In  dust,  and  spent  as  a  tale  that  is  told. 

Alas!  for  his  dreams  and  the  songs  he  sung; 

The  beasts  beset  him;  the  serpents  they  hung, 
Red-tongued  and  terrible,  over  his  head. 

He  clove  and  he  thrust  with  his  keen,  quick 

steel, 
He  coax'd   with  his  hand,  he  urged  with  his 

heel, 
Till  his  steel  was  broken,  and  his  steed  lay  dead. 

He  toiPd  to  the  river,  he  lean'd  intent 

To  the  wave,  and  away  through  the  fringe  of 

boughs, 
From  beasts  that  pursued;  and  breathed  his 

vows, 
For  soul  and  body  were  well-nigh  spent. 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  14! 

Twas  the  king  of  rivers,  and  the  Isles  were  near; 
Yet  it  moved  so  strange,  so  still,  so  strong, 
It  gave  no  sound,  not  even  the  song 

Of  a  sea-bird  screaming  defiance  or  fear. 

It  was  dark  and  dreadful!    Wide  like  an  ocean, 
Much  like  a  river  but  more  like  a  sea, 

Save  that  there   was  naught   of  the   turbulent 

motion 
Of  tides,  or  of  winds  blown  back,  or  a-lee. 

Yea,  strangely  strong  was  the  wave  and  slow, 
And  half-way  hid  in  the  dark  deep  tide, 

Great  turtles  they  paddled  them  to  and  fro, 
And  away  to  the  Isles  and  the  opposite  side. 

The  nude  black  boar  through  abundant  grass 
Stole  down  to  the  water  and  buried  his  nose, 
And  crunch'd  white  teeth  till  the  bubbles  rose 

As  white  and  as  bright  as  are  globes  of  glass. 

Yea,  steadily  moved  it,  mile  upon  mile, 
Above  and  bek>w  and  as  still  as  the  air; 
The  bank  made  slippery  here  and  there 

By  the  slushing  slide  of  the  crocodile. 


142  ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

The  great  trees  bent  to  the  tide  like  slaves; 
They  dipp'd  their  boughs  as  the  stream  swept 

on, 
And  then  drew  back,  then  dipp'd  and  were 

gone, 
Away  to  the  seas  with  the  resolute  waves. 

The  land  was  the  tide's;  the  shore  was  undone; 
It  look'd  as  the  lawless,  unsatisfied  seas 
Had  thrust  up  an  arm  through  the  tangle  of 
trees, 

And  clutch'd  at  the  citrons  that  grew  in  the  sun; 

And  clutch'd  at  the  diamonds  that   hid  in  the 

sand, 

And  laid  heavy  hand  on  the  gold,  and  a  hand 
On  the  redolent  fruits,  on  the   ruby-like  wine, 
And  the  stones  like  the  stars  when  the  stars 

are  divine; 
Had   thrust  through   the  rocks   of   the    ribb'd 

Andes; 

Had  wrested  and  fled;  and  had  left  a  waste 
And  a  wide  way  strewn  in  precipitate  haste, 
As  he  bore  them  away  to  the  buccaneer  seas. 

O,  heavens,  the  eloquent  song  of  the  silence! 
Asleep  lay  the  sun  in  the  vines,  on  the  sod, 


ISLES   OF   THE   AMAZONS.  143 

And    asleep  in  the  sun  lay  the  green-girdled 

islands, 
As  rock'd  to  their  rest  in  the  cradle  of  God. 

God's  poet  is  silence!    His  song  is  unspoken, 
And  yet  so  profound,  so  loud,  and  so  far, 

It  fills  you,  it   thrills  you  with   measures  un- 
broken, 
And  as  still,  and  as  fair,  and  as  far  as  a  star. 

The  shallow  seas  moan.     From  the  first  they 

have  mutter'd, 
As  a  child  that  is  fretted,  and  wept  at  their 

will.  .  . 

The  poems  of  God  are  too  grand  to  be  utter'd: 
The  dreadful  deep  seas  they  are  loudest  when 
still. 

"I  shall  fold  my  hands,  for  this  is  the  river 
Of  death,"  he  said,  "and  the  sea-green  isle 

Is  an  Eden  set  by  the  gracious  Giver 
Wherein  to  rest."     He  listen'd  the  while, 

Then  lifted  his  head,  then  lifted  a  hand 

Arch'd  over  his  brow,  and  he    lean'd    and 
listen'd, — 


144  ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS. 

'Twas  only  a  bird  on  a  border  of  sand, — 

The    dark    stream    eddied  and  gleam'd  and 

glisten'd, 
Stately  and  still  as  the  march  of  a  moon, 

And    the    martial    notes    from  the  isle  were 

gone,— 

Gone  as  a  dream  dies  out  with  the  dawn, 
And  gone  as  far  as  the  night  from  the  noon. 

'Twas  only  a  bird  on  a  border  of  sand, 
Slow  piping,  and  diving  it  here  and  there, 
Slim,  grey,  and  shadowy,  light  as  the  air, 

That  dipp'd  below  from  a  point  of  the  land. 

"Unto  God  a  prayer  and  to  love  a  tear, 
And  I  die,"  he  said,  "in  a  desert  here, 
So  deep  that  never  a  note  is  heard 
But  the  listless  song  of  that  soulless  bird." 

The  strong  trees  lean'd  in  their  love  unto  trees. 

Lock'd  arms  in  their  loves,  and  were  so  made 

strong, 
Stronger  than  armies;  aye,  stronger  than  seas 

That  rush  from  their  caves  in  a  storm  of  song, 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  145 

"A  miser  of  old,  his  last  great  treasure 

Flung  far  in  the  sea,  and  he  fell  and  he  died; 
And  so  shall  I  give,  O  terrible  tide, 

To  you  my  song  and  my  last  sad  measure." 

He  blew  on  a  reed  by  the  still,  strong  river, 
Blew  low  at  first,  like  a  dream,  then  long, 

Then  loud,  then  loud  as  the  keys  that  quiver, 
And  fret  and  toss  with  their  freight  of  song. 

He  sang  and  he  sang  with  a  resolute  will, 
Till  the  mono  rested  above  on  his  haunches, 

And  held  his  head  to  the  side  and  was  still,— 
Till  a  bird  blown  out  of  the  night  of  branches, 
Sang  sadder  than  love,  so  sweeter  than  sad, 

Till  the  boughs  did  burthen  and  the  reeds  did  fill 
With  beautiful  birds,  and  the  boy  was  glad. 

Our  loves  they  are  told  by  the  myriad-eyed  stars, 
Yet  love  it  is  well  in  a  reasonable  way, 
And  fame  it  is  fair  in  its  way  for  a  day, 

Borne  dusty  from  books  and  bloody  from  wars; 

And  death,  I  say,  is  an  absolute  need, 

And  a  calm  delight,  and  an  ultimate  good; 

But  a  song  that  is  blown  from  a  watery  reed 


146  ISLES    OF    THK    AMAZONS. 

By  a  soundless  deep  from  a  boundless  wood, 
With  never  a  hearer  to  heed  or  to  prize 

But  God  and  the  birds  and  the  hairy  wild 
beasts, 

Is  sweeter  than  love,  than  fame,  or  than  feasts, 
Or  any  thing  else  that  is  under  the  skies. 

The  quick  leaves   quiver'd,   and  the  sunlight 

danced; 
As  the  boy  sang  sweet,  and  the   birds  said, 

"Sweet;" 
And  the  tiger  crept  close,  and  lay  low  at  his 

feet, 

And   he  sheathed   his  claws  as  he  gazed  en- 
tranced. 

Theserpentthathung  from  the  sycamore  bough, 
And  sway'd  his  head  in  a  crescent  above, 

Had  folded  his  neck  to  the  white  limb  now, 
And  fondled  it  close  like  a  great  black  love. 

But  the  hands  grew  weary,  the  heart  wax'd  faint, 
The  loud  notes  fell  to  a  far-off  plaint, 
The  sweet  birds  echo'd  no  more,  "Oh,  sweet," 
The  tiger  arose  and  unsheathed  his  claws, 
The  serpent  extended  his  iron  jaws, 


ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS.  147 

And  the  frail  reed  shiver'd  and  fell  at  his  feet. 
A  sound  on  the  tide,  and  he  turn'd  and  cried, 

"  Oh,  give    God  thanks,  for  they  come  they 
come!" 

He  look'd  out  afar  on  the  opaline  tide, 
Then  clasp'd  his  hands,  and  his  lips  were  dumb. 

A  sweeping  swift  crescent  of  sudden  canoes! 
As  light  as  the  sun  of  the  south  and  as  soon, 
And  true  and  as  still  as  a  sweet  half-moon 

That  leans  from   the   heavens,  and   loves  and 
woos! 

The  Amazons  came  in  their  martial  pride, 
As  full  on  the  stream  as  a  studding  of  stars, 
All  girded  in  armor  as  girded  in  wars, 

In  foamy  white  furrows  dividing  the  tide. 

With  a  face  as  brown  as  the  boatmen's  are, 
Or  the  brave,  brown  hand  of  a  harvester; 
The  Queen  on  a  prow  stood  splendid  and  tall, 
As  petulant  waters  would  lift  and  fall; 
Stood  forth   for  the  song,  half   lean'd  in  sur- 
prise, 
Stood  fair  to  behold,  and  yet  grand  to  behold, 


148  ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS. 

And  austere  in  her  face,  and  saturnine-soul'd, 
And  sad  and  subdued,  in  her  eloquent  eyes. 

And  sad  were  they  all;  yet  tall  and  serene 
Of  presence,  but  silent,  and  brow'd  severe 

As  for  some  things  lost,  or  for  some  fair,  green, 
And  beautiful  place,  to  the  memory  dear. 

"O  Mother  of  God!  Thrice  merciful  saint! 

I  am  saved!"  he  said,  and  he  wept  outright; 

Ay,  wept  as  even  a  woman  might, 
For  the  soul  was  full  and  the  heart  was  faint. 

"  Stay!  stay!"  cried  the  Queen,  and  she  leapt  to 

the  land, 
And  she  lifted  her   hand,  and  she   lowered 

their  spears, 

"A  woman!  a  woman!  ho!  help!  give  a  hand! 
A  woman!  a  woman!  we  know  by  the  tears." 

Then  gently  as  touch  of  the  truest  of  woman, 
They  lifted  him  up  from  the  earth  as  he  fell, 
And  into  the  boat,  with  a  half  hidden  swell 

Of  the  heart  that  was  holy  and  tenderly  hu- 
man. 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  149 

They  spoke  low- voiced  as  a  vesper  prayer; 
They  pillow'd  his  head  as  only  the  hand 
Of  woman  can  pillow,  and  push'd  from  the 

land, 

And  the  Queen  she  sat  threading  the   gold  of 
his  hair. 

Then  away  with  the  wave,  and  away  to  the 
Isles, 

In  a  song  of  the  oars  of  the  crescented  fleet 
That  timed  together  in  musical  wiles 

And  bubbles  of  melodies  swift  and  sweet. 


PART  II. 

J-\ORSAKE  the  People.     What  are  they 
-*-  That  laugh,  tliat  live,  that  love  by  rule? 

Forsake  the  Saxon,     i  Vhat  are  these 
That  shun  the  shadoii's  of  the  trees  . 
The  Druid  forests?  .  .  .  Go  thy  -zi'ay, 
We  arc  not  one.    I  -will  not  please 
You:— fare  you  well,  O  wiser  fool .' 

But  you.  wlio  love  me ; —  Ye  -who  lore 
The  shaggy  forests,  fierce  delights 
Of  sounding  waterfalls^  of  heights 
That  hang  like  broken  moons  above. 
With  brows  of  pine  that  brush  the  sun, 
Believe  and  follow.     We  arc  one; 
The  "wild  man  shall  to  us  be  tame ; 
The  -woods  shall  yield  their  mysteries ; 
The  stars  shall  answer  to  a  name. 
And  fie  as  birds  above  the  trees. 

THEY  swept  to  the   Isles  through  the  fur- 
rows of  foam, 

They  alit  on  the  land  as  love  hastening  home, 
And  below  the  banana,  with  leaf  like  a  tent, 
They  tenderly  laid  him,  they  bade  him  take 

rest, 
They  brought  him  strange  fishes  and  fruits  of 

the  best, 
And  he  ate  and  took  rest  with  a  patient  content. 

150 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  !$! 

They  watch'd  him  well;  he  rose  up  strong; 
He  stood  in  their  midst,  and  they  said,  "How 

fair! " 
And  they  said,  "How  tall  !  "  And  they  toy'd 

with  his  hair. 
And  they  touched  his   limbs   and   they    said, 

"How  long! 

And  how  strong  they  are;  and  how  brave  she  is, 
That  she  made  her  way  through  the  wiles  of 

man, 
That  she  braved  his  wrath  that  she  broke  the 

ban 
Of  his  desolate  life  for  the  love  of  this! " 

They  wrought  for  him  armor  of  cunning  attire, 
They  brought  him  a  sword  and  a  great  shell 

shield, 
And  implored  him  to  shiver  the  lance  on  the 

field, 
And  to  follow  their  beautiful  Queen  in  her  ire. 

But  he  took  him  apart;  then  the  Amazons  came 
And  entreated   of   him   with  their  eloquent 

eyes 
And  their  earnest  and  passionate  souls  of  flame, 


152  ISLES    01-    THK    AMAZONS. 

And  the  soft,  sweet  words  that  are  broken  of 

sighs, 

To  be  one  of  their  own;  but  he  still  denied 
And  bow'd  and  abash'd  he  stole  further  aside. 

He  stood  by  the  Palms  and  he  lean'd  in  unrest, 
And  standing  alone,  looked  out  and  afar, 
For  his  own  fair  land  where  the  castles  are, 

With  irresolute  arms  en  a  restless  breast. 

He  re-lived  his  loves,  he  recall'd  his  wars, 
He  gazed  and  he  gazed  with  a  soul  distress'd, 
Like  a  far  sweet  star  that  is  lost  in  the  west, 

Till  the  day  was  broken  to  a  dust  of  stars. 

They  sigh'd,  and  they  left  him  alone  in  the  care 
Of  faithfullest  matron;  they  moved  to  the  field 
With  the  lifted  sword  and  the  sounding  shield 

High  fretting  magnificent  storms  of  hair. 

And,  true  as  the  moon  in  her  march  of  stars, 
The  Queen  stood  forth  in  her  fierce  attire 

Worn  as  they  trained  or  worn  in  the  wars, 
As  bright  and  as  chaste  as  a  flash  of  fire. 

With  girdles  of  gold  and  of  silver  cross'd, 
And  plaited,  and  chased,  and  bound  together, 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  153 

Broader  and  stronger  than  belts  of  leather, 
Cunningly  fashion'd  and  blazon'd  and  boss'd — 
With  diamonds  circling  her,  stone  upon  stone, 

Above  the  breast  where  the  borders  fail, 
Below  the  breast  where  the  fringes  zone, 

She  moved  in  a  glittering  garment  of  mail. 

The  form  made  hardy  and  the  waist  made  spare 
From  athlete  sports  and  adventures  bold, 
The  breastplate,  fasten'd  with  clasps  of  gold, 

Was  clasp'd,  as  close  as  the  breasts  could  bear, — 

And  bound  and  drawn  to  a  delicate  span, 
It  flash'd  in  the  red  front  ranks  of  the  field — 

Was  fashion'd  full  trim  in  its  intricate  plan 
And  gleam'd  as  a  sign,  as  well  as  a  shield, 

That  the  virgin  Queen  was  unyielding  still, 
And  pure  as  the  tides  that  around  her  ran; 

True  to  her  trust,  and  strong  in  her  will 
Of  war,  and  hatred  to  the  touch  of  man. 

The  field  it  was  theirs  in  storm  or  in  shine, 
So  fairly  they  stood  that  the  foe  came  not 
To  the  battle  again,  and  the  fair  forgot 
The  rage  of  battle;  and  they  trimm'd  the  vine, 
They  tended  the  fields  of  the  tall  green  corn, 


154  ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

They  crush'd  the  grape  and  they  drew  the  wine 
In  great  round  gourds  or  the  bended  horn, 
And  seemed  as  souls  that  are  half  divine. 

They  bathed  in  the  wave  in  the  amber  morn, 
They  took  repose  in  the  peaceful  shade 
Of  eternal  palms,  and  were  never  afraid; 

Yet  oft  did  they  sigh,  and  look  far  and  forlorn. 

Where  the  rim  of  the  wave  was  weaving  a  spell, 
And  the  grass  grew  soft  where  it  hid  from  the 

sun, 
Would   the  Amazons  gather  them  every  one 

At  the  call  of  the  Queen  or  the  sound  of  her  shell: 

Would  come  in  strides  through  the  kingly  trees, 

And  train  and  marshal  them  brave  and  well 
In  the  golden  noon,  in  the  hush  of  peace 

Where  the  shitting  shades  of  the  fan-palms 

fell; 
Would  train  till  flush'd  and  as  warm  as  wine, 

Would  reach  with  their  limbs,  would  thrust 
with  the  lance, 

Attack,  retire,  retreat  and  advance, 
Then  wheel  in  column,  then  fall  in  line; 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  155 

Stand  thigh  and  thigh  with  the  limbs  made  hard 
And  rich  and  round  as  the  swift  limb'd  pard, 
Or  a  racer  train'd,  or  a  white  bull  caught 
In  the  lasso's  toils,  where  the  tame  are  not: 

Would  curve  as  the  waves  curve,  swerve  in  line; 

Would  dash  through  the  trees,  would  train 
with  the  bow, 

Then  back  to  the  lines,  now  sudden,  then  slow, 
Then  flash  their  swords  in  the  sun  at  a  sign; 
Would  settle  the  foot  right  firm  afront, 

Then   sound   the  shield  till  the  sound  was 

heard 
Afar,  as  the  horn  in  the  black  boar  hunt; 

Yet,  strangest  of  all,  say  never  one  word. 

When  shadows  fell  far  from  the  westward,  and 

when 
The  sun  had  kiss'd  hands  and  made  sail  for 

the  east, 
They  would  kindle  the  fires  and  gather  them 

then, 
Well-worn  and  most  merry  with  song,  to  the 

feast. 
They  sang  of  all  things,  but  the  one,  sacred  one, 


156  ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

That   could  make  them  most  glad,  as  they 

lifted  the  gourd 
And  pass'd  it  around,  with    its    rich   purple 

hoard, 
From  the  Island  that  lay  with  its  front  to  the 

sun. 

Though  lips  were  most  luscious,  and  eyes  as 

divine 
As  the  eyes  of  the  skies  that  bend  down  from 

above; 
Though    hearts   were    made    glad    and  most 

mellow  with  love, 
As  dripping  gourds  drain'd  of  their  burthens  of 

wine; 
Though  brimming,  and  dripping,  and  bent  of 

their  shape 
Were  the  generous  gourds  from  the  juice  of  the 

grape, 
They  could  sing  not  of  love,  they  could  breathe 

not  a  thought 

Of  the    savor  of    life;  of  love  sought,    or  un- 
sought. 

Their  loves  they  were  not;  they  had  banish'd 
the  name 


ISLES   OF   THE   AMAZONS.  157 

Of  man,  and  the  uttermost  mention  of  love, — 
The  moonbeams  about  them,  the  quick  stars 

above, 
The  mellow-voiced  waves,  they  were  ever  the 

same, 
In  sign,  and  in  saying,  of  the  old  true  lies; 

But  they  took  no  heed;  no  answering  sign, 
Save  glances  averted  and  half-hush'd  sighs, 
Went  back  from  the  breasts  with  their  loves 
divine. 


They  sang  of  their  freedom  with  a  will,  and  well, 

They  paid  for  it  well  when  the  price  was  blood ; 
They  beat  on  the  shield,  and  they  blew  on  the 
shell, 

When  their  wars  were  not,  for  they  held  it  good 
To  be  glad  and  to  sing  till  the  flush  of  the  day, 

In  an  annual  feast,  when  the  broad  leaves  fell; 

Yet  some  sang  not,  and  some  sighed  "Ah. 

well  !"— 

For  there's  far  less  left  you  to  sing  or  to  say, 
When  mettlesome  love  is  banish'd,  I  ween,— 

To  hint  at  as  hidden,  or  to  half  disclose 
In  the  swift  sword-cuts  of  the  tongue,  made  keen 

With  wine  at  a  feast, — than  one  would  suppose. 


158  ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS. 

So  the  days  wore  by,  but  they  brought  no  rest 
To  the  minstrel  knight,  though  the  sun  was  as 

gold, 
And  the  Isles  were  green,  and  the  great  Queen 

blest 
In  the  splendor  of  arms,  and  as  pure  as  bold. 

He  would  now  resolve  to  reveal  to  her  all, 
His  sex  and  his  race  in  a  well-timed  song ; 
And  his  love  of  peace,  his  hatred  of  wrong, 
And  his  own  deceit,  though  the  sun  should  fall. 
Then  again  he  would  linger,  and  knew  not  how 
He  could  best  proceed,  and  deferr'd  him  now 
Till  a  favorite  day,  then  the  fair  day  came, 
And  still  he  delay'd,  and  reproachd  him  the 
same. 

And  he  still  said  nought,  but,  subduinghis  head, 
He  wander'd  by  day  in  a  dubious  spell 

Of  unutterable  thought  of  the  truth  unsaid, 
To  the  indolent  shore,  and  hegather'dashell, 

And  heshaped  its  point  to  his  passionate  mouth, 
And  he  turn'd  to  a  bank  and  began  to  blow, 
While  the  Amazons  trained  in  a  troop  below, 

And  as  soft  and  as  sweet  as  a  kiss  of  the  south. 


ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS.  159 

The  Amazons  lifted  with  glad  surprise, 

Stood  splendid  at  first  and  look'd  far  and  fair, 
Set  forward  a  foot,  and  shook  back  their  hair, 

Like  clouds  push'd  back  from  the  sun-lit  skies. 

It  stirr'd  their  souls,  and  they  ceased  to  train 
In  troop  by  the  shore,  as  the  tremulous  strain 
Fell  down  from  the  hill  through  the  tasselling 

trees  ; 

And  a  murmur  of  song,  like  the  sound  of  bees 
In  the  clover  crown  of  a  queenly  spring, 

Came  back  unto  him,  and  he  laid  the  shell 
Aside  on  the  bank,  and  began  to  sing 

Of  eloquent  love  ;  and  the  ancient  spell 
Of  passionate  song  was  his,  and  the  Isle, 

As  waked  to  delight  from  its  slumber  long, 
Came  back  in  echoes  ;  yet  all  this  while 

He  knew  not  at  all  the  sin  of  his  song. 


T 


PART  III. 

T  KNO  W  upon  this  earth  a  spot 
-*-      Where  clinking  coins,  that  clank  as  chains 
Upon  the  souls  of  men,  are  not ; 
Nor  man  is  measured  for  his  gains 
Of  gold  that  streams  with  crimon  stains. 

The  snow-topped  towers  crush  the  clouds 

And  break  the  still  abode  of  stars. 
Like  sudden  ghosts  in  snowy  shrouds, 

New  broken  through  their  earthly  bars. 
And  condors  whet  their  crooked  beaks 
On  lofty  limits  of  the  peaks. 

O  men  that  fret  as  frets  the  main  ! 

You  irk  me  ivith  your  eager  gaze 

Down  in  the  earth  for  fat  increase — 
Eternal  talks  of  gold  and  gain. 

Your  shalloiv  wit,  your  shallow  ways. 
And  breaks  my  soul  across  the  shoal 
As  breakers  break  on  shallow  seas. 

HEY  bared  their  brows  to  the  palms  above, 
But  some    look'd    level,  into  comrades' 


eyes, 
And  they  then  remember'd  that  the  thought  of 

love 
Was  the  thing    forbidden,  and  they    sank  in 

sighs.     . 

160 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  l6l 

They    turned    from    the  training,  to  heed  in 

throng 
To  the  old,  old  tale;  and  they    trained  no 

more, 

As  he  sang  of  love;  and  some  on  the  shore, 
And  full  in  the  sound  of  the  eloquent  song, 
With  a  womanly  air  and  irresolute  will 

Went  listlessly  onward  as  gathering  shells; 
Then  gazed  in  the  waters,  as  bound  in  spells; 
Then  turned  to  the  song  and  so  sigh'd,  and 
were  still. 

And  they  said  no  word.     Some  tapp'd  on  the 

sand 
With  the  sandal'd  foot,  keeping  time  to  the 

sound, 

In  a  sort  of  dream;  some  timed  with  the  hand, 
And  one    held    eyes    full    of    tears  to  the 

ground. 
She  thought  of  the  days  when  their  wars  they 

were  not, 
As  she  lean'd    and    listened  to  the  old,  old 

song, 

When  they  sang  of  their  loves,  and  she  well 
forgot 

The  hard  oppressions  and  a  world  of  wrong. 
11 


l62  ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

Like  a  pure  true  woman,  with  her  trust  in  tears 
And  the  things  that  are  true,  she  re-lived 

them  in  thought, 
Though  hush'd  and  crush'd  in  the  fall  of  the 

years; 

She  lived  but  the  fair,  and  the   false  she  for- 
got 

Asatale  long  told, or  as  things  that  are  dreams; 
And  the  quivering  curve  of  the  lip  it  confest 
The  silent  regrets,  and  a  soul  that  teems 

With  a  world  of  love  in  a  brave  true  breast. 

Then  this  one,  younger,  who  had  known  no  love, 
Nor  look'd  upon  man  but  in  blood  on  the  field, 
She  bow'd  her  head,  and  she  leaned  on  her 

shield, 

And  her  heart  beat  quick  as  the  wings  of  a  dove 
That  is  blown  from  the  sea,  where  the  rests  arc 

not 

In  the  time  of  storms;  and  by  instinct  taught 
Grew  pensive,  and  sigh'd;  as  she  thought  and 

she  thought 

Of  some  wonderful  things,  and— she  knew  not  of 
what. 

Then  this  one  thought  of  a  love  forsaken, 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  163 

She  thought  of  a  brown  sweet  babe,  and  she 

thought 

Of  the  bread-fruits  gather'd,  of  the  swift  fish 
taken 

In  intricate  nets,  like  a  love  well  sought. 
She  thought  of  the  moons  of  her  maiden  dawn, 

Mellow'd  and  fair  with  the  forms  of  man; 
So  dearer  indeed  to  dwell  upon 

Than  the  beautiful  waves  that  around  her  ran; 
So  fairer  indeed  than  the  fringes  of  light 

That  lie  at  rest  on  the  west  of  the  sea 
In  furrows  of  foam  on  the  borders  of  night, 

And  dearer  indeed  than  the  songs  to  be — 
Than  calling  of  dreams  from  the  opposite  land, 

To  the  land  of  life,  and  of  journeys  dreary, 

When   the  soul  goes    over  from   the    form 

grown  weary, 
And  walks  in  the  cool  of  the  trees  on  the  strand. 

But   the  Queen  was  enraged  and  would  smite 

him  at  first 
With  the  sword  unto  death,  yet  it  seemed  that 

she  durst 

Not  touch  him  at  all ;  and  she  moved  as  to  chide, 
And  she  lifted  her  face,  and  she  frown'd  at  his 

side, 


164  ISLES   OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

Then   touch'd   on  his  arm;  then  she  looked  in 

his  eyes 

And  right  full  in  his  soul,  but  she  saw  no  fear, 
In  the  pale  fair  face,  and  with  frown  severe 

She  press'd  her  lips  as  suppressing  her  sighs. 

She  banish 'd  her  wrath,  she  unbended  her  face, 
She  lifted  her  hand  and  put  back  his  hair 
From  his  fair  sad  brow,  with  a  penitent  air, 

And  forgave  him  all  with  an  unuttcrcd  grace. 

But  she  said  no  word,  yet  no  more  was  severe; 
She  stood  as  subdued  by  the  side  of  him  still, 
Then  averted  her  face  with  a  resolute  will, 

As  to  hush  a  regret,  or  to  hide  back  a  tear. 

She  sighed  to  herself;  "A  stranger  is  this, 
And  ill  and  alone,  that  knows  not  at  all 
That  a  throne  shall  totter  and  the  strong  shall 
fall, 

At  the  mention  of  love  and  its  banefullest  bliss, 

O  life  that  is  lost  in  bewildering  love — 

But  a  stranger  is  sacred!"     She  lifted  a  hand 

And  she  laid  it  as  soft  as  the  breast  of  a  dove 
On  the  minstrel's  mouth.     It  was  more  than 
the  wand 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  165 

Of  the  tamer  of  serpents,  for  she  did  no  more 
Than  to  bid  with  her  eyes  and  to  beck  with 

her  hand, 
And  the  song  drew  away  to  the  waves  of  the 

shore; 

Took  wings,  as  it  were,  to  the  verge  of  the 
land. 

But  her  heart  was  oppress'd.      With  penitent 

head 

She  turn'd  to  her  troop,  and,  retiring,  she  said: 
"Alas!  and  alas!  shall  it  come  to  pass 
That  the  panther  shall  die  from  a  blade  of  grass? 
That  the  tiger  shall  yield  at  the  bent-horn  blast  ? 
That  we,  who  have  conquer'd  a  world  and  all 
Of  men  and  of  beasts  in  the  world  must  fall 
Ourselves  at  the  mention  of  love,  at  last?" 

The  singer  was  fretted,  and  farther  apart 
He  wander'd,  perplex'd;  and  he  felt  his  heart 
Beat  quick  and  troubled,  and  all  untamed, 
As  he  saw  her  move  with  marvelous  grace 
To  her  troop  below;  he  turn'd  from  his  place, 
Oppress'd  and  humbled,  and  sore  ashamed 
That  he  lived  in  the  land  in  the  shield  of  a  lie; 


166  ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS. 

That  he  dared  not  stand  forth  face  to  face 
To  the  truth,  and  die  as  a  knight  should  die. 

The  tall  Queen  turn'd  to  her  troop, 

She  led  the  minstrel  and  all  to  the  innermost 
part 

Of  the  palm-crown'd  Isle,  where  great   trees 

group 
In  armies,  to  battle  when  black  storms  start, 

And  made  her  retreat  from  the  sun  by  the  trees 
That  are  topp'd  like  tents,  where  the  fire^flies 
Are  a  light  to  the  feet,  and  a  fair  lake  lies 

As  cool  as  the  coral-set  centres  of  seas. 

The  palm-trees  lorded  the  copse  like  kings, 
Their  tall  tops  tossing  the  indolent  clouds 
That  folded  the  Isle  in  the  dawn,  like  shrouds, 

Then  fled  from  the  sun  like  to  living  things. 

The  cockatoo  swung  in  the  vines  below, 
And  muttering  hung  on  a  golden  thread, 

Or  moved  on  the  moss'd  bough  to  and  fro, 
In  plumes  of  gold  and  array'd  in  red. 

The  lake  lay  hidden  away  from  the  light, 
As  asleep  in  the  Isle  from  the  tropical  noon, 


ISLES   OF   THE   AMAZONS.  l6/ 

And  narrow  and  bent  like  a  new-born  moon, 
And  fair  as  a  moon  in  the  noon  of  the  night. 
'Twas  shadow'd  by  forests,  and  fringed  by  ferns, 
And  fretted  anon  by  the  fishes  that  leapt 
At  indolent  flies  that  slept  or  kept 
Their  drowsy  tones  on  the  tide  by  turns. 

And  here  in  the  dawn  when  the  day  was  strong 

And  newly  aroused  from  leafy  repose, 

With  dews  on  his  feet  and  tints  of  the  rose 

In  his  great  flush'd  face  was  a  sense  and  song 

That  the  tame  old  world  has  nor  known  nor 

heard. 

The  soul  was  fill'd  with  the  soft  perfumes, 
The  eloquent  wings  of  the  humming  bird 
Beguiled  the  heart,  they  purpled  the  air 
And  allured  the  eye,  as  so  everywhere 
On  the  rim  of  the  wave  or  across  it  in  rings, 

They  swept  or  they  sank  in  a  sea  of  blooms, 
And  wove  and  wound  in  a  song  of  rings. 

A  bird  in  scarlet  and  gold,  made  mad 

With  sweet  delights,  through  the  branches  slid 
And  kiss'd  the  lake  on  a  drowsy  lid 

Till  the  ripples  ran  and  the  face  was  glad : 


iCS  ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS. 

Was  glad  and  lovely  as  lights  that  sweep 

The  face  of  heaven  when  the  stars  are  forth 
In  autumn  time  through  the  awful  north, 

Or  the  face  of  a  child  when  it  smiles  in  sleep. 

And  here  was  the  Queen,  in  the  tropical  noon, 
When  the  wave  and  the  world  and  all  were 

asleep, 

And  nothing  look'd  forth  to  betray  or  to  peep 
Tii rough  glories  of  jungle  in  garments  of  June, 
To  bathe  with  her  court  in  the  waters  that  bent 
In  the  beautiful  lake  through  tasseling  trees, 
Ar.d  the  tangle  of  blooms  in  a  burden  of  bees, 
As  bold  and  as  sharp  as  a  bow  unspent. 

And  strangely  still,  and  more  strangely  sweet, 
Was  the  lake  that  lay  in  its  cradle  of  fern, 
As  still  as  a  moon  with  her  horns  that  turn 

In  the  night,  like  lamps  to  some  delicate  feet. 

They  came  and  they  stood  by  the  brink  of  the 

tide, 
They  hung  their  shields,  on  the  boughs  of  the 

trees, 
Tin .  y  lean'd  their  lances  against  the  side, 


ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS.  l6g 

Unloosed  their  sandals,  and  busy  as  bees 
Ungather'd  their  robes  in  the  rustle  of  leaves 
That  wound  them  as  close   as    the  wine- vine 
weaves. 

The  minstrel  here  falter'd,  and  further  aside 
Than  ever  before  he  averted  his  head  ; 

He  pick'd  up  a  pebble  and  fretted  the  tide, 
Then  turn'd  with  a  countenance  flush'd  and 
red, 

He  feign'd  him  ill,  he  wander'd  away, 
He  sat  him  down  by  the  waters  alone, 

And  pray'd  for  pardon,  as  a  knight  should  pray, 
And  rued  an  error  not  all  his  own. 

The  Amazons  press'd  to  the  girdle  of  reeds, 
Two  and  by  two  they  advanced  to  the  wave, 
They   challenged  each  other,  and    bade  be 
brave, 

And  banter'd,  and  vaunted  of  valorous  deeds. 

They  push'd  and  they  parted  the  curtains  of 

green, 

All  timid  at  first;  then  looked  at  the  wave 
And  laugh'd;  retreated,  then  came  up  brave 

To  the  brink  of  the  water,  led  on  by  their  Queen. 


I/O  ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

Again  they  retreated,  again  advanced, 

And  parted  the  boughs  in  a  proud  disdain, 

Then  bent  their  heads  to  the  waters,  and  glanced 
Below,  then  blush'd,  ami  then  laugh'd  again, 

A  bird  awaken'd;  then  all  dismayed 

With  a  womanly  sense  of  a  beautiful  shame 
That  strife  and  changes  had  left  the  same, 

They  shrank  to  the  leaves  and  the  sombre  shade. 

At  last,  press'd  forward  a  beautiful  pair 

And   bent  to    the  wave,  and    bending   they 

blush'd 
As  rich  as  their  wines;  when  the  waters  rush'd 

To  the  dimpled  limbs,  and  laugh'd  in  their  hair. 

The  fair  troop  follow'd  with  shouts  and  cheers, 
They  cleft  the  wave,  and  the  friendly  ferns 
Came  down  in  curtains  and  curves  and  turns, 

And  a  brave  palm  lifted  a  thousand  spears. 

From  under  the  ferns  and  away  from  the  land, 
And  out  in  the  wave  until  lost  below, 
There  lay,  as  white  as  a  bank  of  snow, 

A  long  and  a  beautiful  border  of  sand. 


ISLES   OF   THE   AMAZONS.  IJl 

Here  clothed  alone  in  their  clouds  of  hair 

And  curtain'd  about  by  the  palm  and  fern, 
And  made  as  their  maker  had  made  them,  fair, 

And  splendid  of  natural  curve  and  turn; 
Untramell'd  by  art  and  untroubled  by  man 

They  tested  their  strength,  or  tried  their  speed. 
And  here  they  wrestled,  and  there  they  ran, 

As  supple  and  lithe  as  the  watery  reed. 

• 
The  great  trees  shadow'd  the  bow-tipp'd  tide, 

And  nodded  their  plumes  from  the  opposite  side, 

As  if  to  whisper,  Take  care!  take  care! 

But  the  meddlesome  sunshine  here  and  there 

Kept  pointing  a  finger  right  under  the  trees, — 

Kept  shifting  the  branches  and  wagging  a 

hand 
At  the  round  brown  limbs  on  the  border  of 

sand, 
And  seem'd  to  whisper,  Ho!  what  are  these? 

The  gold-barr'd  butterflies  to  and  fro 

And  over  the  waterside  wander' d  and  wove 
As  heedless  and  idle  as  clouds  that  rove 

And  drift  by  the  peaks  of  perpetual  snow. 

A  monkey  swung  out  from  a  bough  in  the  skies, 


172  ISLES   OF  THE   AMAZONS. 

White-whisker'd  and  ancient,  and  wisest  of  all 
Of  his  populous  race,  and  he  heard  them  call 
And  he  watch'd  them  long,  with  his  head  side- 
wise, 
From  under  his  brows  of  amber  and  brown, 

All  patient  and  silent,  and  never  once  stirr'd; 
Then  he  shook  his  head,  and  he  hasten'd  him 

down 
To  his  army  below  and  said  never  a  word.  f 


PART    IV. 

f- 1  \HERE  is  many  a  love  in  the  land,  my  love, 

-*-        But  never  a  love  like  this  is; 
Then  kill  me  dead  with  your  /ere,  my  love. 

And  cover  me  up  with  kisses. 

Tea,  kill  me  dead  and  cover  me  deep 

Where  never  a  soul  discovers ; 

Deep  in  your  heart  to  sleep  to  sleep 

In  the  darlingest  tomb  of  lovers. 

THE   wanderer    took    him   apart    from   the 
place; 
Look'd  up  in  the  boughs  at  the  gold  birds 

there, 
He  counted  the  humming-birds  fretting  the 

air, 
And  brush'd  at  the  butterflies  fanning  his  face. 

He  sat  him  down  in  a  crook  of  the  wave 

And  away  from  the  Amazons,  under  the  skies 

Where  great  trees  curved  to  a  leaf-lined  cave, 
And  he  lifted  his  hands  and  he  shaded  his 
eyes; 

173 


1^4  ISLES   OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

And  he  held  his  head  to  the  north  when  they 

came 

To  run  on  the  reaches  of  sand  from  the  south, 
And  he  pull'd  at  his  chin,  and  he  pursed  his 

mouth, 
And  he  shut  his  eyes,  with  a  sense  of  shame. 

He  reach'd  and  he  shaped  him,  sad  and  slow, 
A  bambo  reed  from  the  brink  below; 
He  lifted  it  then  and  began  to  blow 

As  if  to  himself;  as  the  sea  sometimes 

Does  soothe  and  soothe  in  a  low,  sweet  song, 
When  his  rage  is  spent,  and  the  beach  swells 
strong 

With  sweet  repetitions  of  alliterate  rhymes. 

The  echoes  blew  black  from  the  indolent  land; 
Silent  and  still  sat  the  tropical  bird, 
And  only  the  sound  of  the  reed  was  heard, 

As  the  Amazons  ceased  from  their  sports  on 
the  sand. 

They  rose   from  the   wave,   and    inclining  the 

head, 
They  listen'd  intent,  with  the  delicate  tip 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  1/5 

Of  the  finger  touch'd  to  the  pouting  lip, 
Till  the  brown  Queen  turn'd  in  the  tide,  and  led 
Through  the   opaline  lake,    and    under  the 

shade, 

To  the  shore   where   the    chivalrous    singer 
played. 

He  bended  his  head  and  he  shaded  his  eyes 
As  well  as  he  might  with  his  lifted  fingers, 

And  ceased  to  sing.     But  in  mute  surprise 
He  saw  them  linger  as  a  child  that  lingers 
Allured  by  a  song  thrown  down  through  the 
street, 

And  looks  bewilder'd  about  from  its  play, 
For  the  last  loved  notes  that  fall  at  its  feet; 

And  as  he  heard  them  whisper,  he  felt  them 

sway 
Aside  and  before  all  silent  and  sweet. 

But  the  singer  was  vexed;  he  averted  his  head; 
He  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  mosses  aside 
For  a  brief,  little  time;  but  they  turn'd  to  the 
tide 

In  spite  of  his  will,  or  of  prayers  well  said. 

He  press'd  four  fingers  against  each  lid, 


1/6  ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

Till  the  light  was  gone;  yet  for  all  that  he  did 
It  seem'd  that  the  lithe  forms  lay  and  beat 
Afloat  in  his  face  and  full  under  his  feet. 

He  seem'd  to  behold  the  billowy  breast, 
And  the  rounded  limbs  in  their  pure  unrest— 
To  see  them  swim  as  the  mermaid  swims, 
With  the  drifting,  dimpled  delicate  limbs, 
Folded  and  hidden  or  reach'd  and  caress'd. 

It  seems  to  me  there  is  more  that  sees 
Than  the  eyes  in  man;  you   may  close  your 

eyes, 
You  may  turn  your  back,  and  may  still  be 

wise 

In  sacred  and  marvellous  mysteries. 
He  saw  as  one  sees  the  sun  of  a  noon 

In  the  sun-kiss'd  south,  when  the  eyes  are 

closed — 

He  saw  as  one  sees  the  bars  of  a  moon 
That  fall  through  the  boughs  of  the  tropical  trees, 
When  he  lies  at  length,  and  is  all  composed, 
And  asleep  in  his  hammock  by  the  sundown  seas. 

He  heard  the  waters  beat,  bubble  and  fret; 
He  lifted  his  eyes,  yet  forever  they  lay 


ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS.  I// 

Afloat  in  the  tide;  and  he  turn'd  him  away 
And  resolved  to  fly  and  for  aye  to  forget. 

He  rose  up  strong,  and  he  cross'd  him  twice, 

He  nerved  his  heart  and  he  lifted  his  head, 
He  crush'd  the  treacherous  reed  in  a  trice, 

With  an  angry  foot,  and  he  turn'd  and  fled. 

Yet  flying  he  hurriedly  turn'd  his  head 
With  an  eager  glance,  with  meddlesome  eyes, 
As  a  woman  will  turn:  and  he  saw  arise 

The  beautiful  Queen  from  the  silvery  bed. 

She  toss'd  back  her  hair,  and  she  turn'd  her  eyes 
With  all  of  their  splendor  to  his  as  he  fled; 

Ay,  all  their  glory,  and  a  strange  surprise, 
And  a  sad  reproach,  and  a  world  unsaid. 

She  beat  on  their  shields,  they  rose  in  array, 

As  roused  from  a  trance,  and  hurriedly  came 
From  out  of  the  wave.     He  wander'd  away, 

Still  fretting  his  sensitive  soul  with  blame, 
Until  all  array'd;  then  ill  and  opprest, 

And  bitterly  cursing  the  treacherous  reed, 
Return'd  with  his  hand  on  his  turbulent  breast, 

And  struck  to  the  heart,  and  most  ill  indeed. 
***** 

12 


178  ISLtS    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 

Alone  he  would  sit  in  the  shadows  at  noon, 
Alone  he  would  sit  by  the  waters  at  night; 
Would  sing  sad-voiced,  as  a  woman  might, 

With  pale,  kind  face,  to  the  pale,  cold  moon. 

He  would  here  advance,  and  would  there  retreat, 
As  a  petulant  child  that  has  lost  its  way 
In  the  redolent  walks  of  a  sultry  day, 

And  wanders  around  with  irresolute  feet. 

He  made  him  a  harp  of  mahogany  wood, 
He  strung  it  well  with  the  sounding  strings 
Of  a  strong  bird's  thews,  and  from  ostrich 
wings, 

And  play'd  and  sang  in  a  sad  sweet  rune. 
He  hang'd  his  harp  in  the  vines,  and  stood 

By  the  tide  at  night,  in  the  palms  at  noon, 
And  lone  as  a  ghost  in  the  shadowy  wood. 

Then  two  grew  sad,  and  alone  sat  she 

By  the  great,  strong  stream,  and  she  bow'd 

her  head, 
Then  lifted  her  face  to  the  tide  and  said, 

"O,  pure  as  a  tear  and  as  strong  as  a  sea, 
Yet  tender  to  me  as  the  touch  of  a  dove, 


ISLES   OF   THE   AMAZONS.  1 79 

I  had  rather  sit  sad  and  alone  by  thee, 
Than   to  go  and  be   glad,  with  a  legion   in 
love." 

She  sat  some  time  at  the  wanderer's  side 
As  the  kingly  water  went  wandering  by; 
And  the  two  once  look'd,  and  they  knew  not 
why, 

Full  sad  in  each  other's  eyes,  and  they  sigh'd. 

She  courted  the  solitude  under  the  rim 

Of  the   trees   that   reach'd   to   the   resolute 
stream, 

And  gazed  in  the  waters  as  one  in  a  dream, 
Till  her  soul  grew  heavy  and  her  eyes  grew  dim 
To  the  fair  delights  of  her  own  fair  Isles. 

She  turn'  her  face  to  the  stranger  again, 
He  cheer'd  with  song  and  allured  with  smiles, 

But  cheer'd,  and  allured,  and  soothed  in  vain. 

She  bow'd  her  head  with  a  beautiful  grief 
That  grew  from  her  pity;  she  forgot  her  arms, 
And  she  made  neglect  of  the  battle  alarms 
That  threaten 'd  the  land;  the  banana's  leaf 
Made  shelter;  he  lifted  his  harp  again, 


l8O  ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

She  sat,  she  listen'd  intent  and  long, 
Forgetting  her  care  and  forgetting  her  pain- 
Made  sad  for  the  singer,  made  glad  from  his 
song. 

****** 

But  the  braves  waxed  cold;  the  white  moons 

waned, 
And  the  brown  Queen  marshall'd  them  never 

once  more, 
With  sword  and  with  shield,  in  the  palms  by 

the  shore; 

But  they  sat  them  down  to  repose,  or  remain'd 
Apart  and  scatter'd  in  the  tropic-leaf'd  trees, 
As  sadden'd  by  song,  or  for  loves  delay'd 
Or  away  in  the  Isle  in  couples  they  stray'd, 
Not  at  all  content  in  their  Isles  of  peace. 

They  wander'd  away  to  the  lakes  once  more, 
Or  walk'd  in  the  moon,    or  they  sigh'd,  or 
slept, 

Or  they  sat  in  pairs  by  the  shadowy  shore, 
And  silent  song  with  the  waters  kept. 

There  was  one  who  stood  by  the  waters  one 
eve, 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  iSl 

With  the  stars  on  her  hair,  and  the  bars  of 

the  moon 

Broken  up  at  her  feet  by  the  bountiful  boon 
Of  extending  old  trees,  who  did    questioning 
grieve; 

"The  birds  they  go  over  us  two  and  by  two; 
The  mono  is  mated;  his  bride  in  the  boughs 
Sit  nursing  his  babe,  and  his  passionate  vows 

Of  love,  you  may  hear  them  the   whole    day 
through. 

"The  lizard,  the  cayman,  the  white-tooth'd  boar, 
The  serpents  that  glide  in  the  sword-leafd 

grass, 

The  beasts  that  abide  or  the  birds  that  pass, 
They  are  glad  in  their  loves  as  the  green-leaf 'd 
shore. 

"There  is  nothing  that  is  that  can  yield  one  bliss 
Like  an  innocent  love;  the  leaves  have  tongue 
And  the  tides  talk  low  in  the  reeds,  and  the 
young 

And  the  quick  buds  open  their  lips  but  for  this. 


1 82  ISLES   OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

"In  the  steep  and  the  starry  silences, 

On  the  stormy  levels  of  the  limitless  seas, 
Or  here  in  the  deeps  of  the  dark-brow'd  trees( 

There  is  nothing  so  much  as  a  brave  man's  kiss. 

"There  is  nothing  so  strong,  in  the  stream,  on 

the  land, 
In  the  valley  of    palms,  on   the   pinnacled 

snow, 

In  the  clouds  of  the  gods,  on  the  grasses  be- 
low, 
As  the  silk-soft  touch  of  a  baby's  brown  hand. 

"It  were  better  to  sit  and  to  spin  on  a  stone 
The  whole  year  through  with  a  babe  at  the 

knee, 
With  its  brown  hands  reaching  caressingly, 

Than  to  sit  in  a  girdle  of  gold  and  alone. 

"It  were  better  perhaps  to  be  mothers  of  men, 
And  to  murmur  not  much;  there  are  clouds 

in  the  sun. 

Can  a  woman  undo  what  the  gods  have  done? 
Nay,  the  things  must  be  as  the   things  have 
been." 


ISLES   OF  THE  AMAZONS.  183 

They  wander'd  well  forth,  some  here  and  some 

there, 

Unsatisfied  some  and  irresolute  all. 

The  sun  was  the  same,  the  moonlight  did  fall 

Rich-barr'd  and  refulgent;  the  stars  were  as  fair 

As  ever  were  stars;  the  fruitful  clouds  cross'd 

And  the  harvest  fail'd  not;  yet  the  fair  Isle 

grew 
As   a   prison  to   all,  and   they  search'd  on 

through 

The  magnificent  shades  as  for  things  that  were 
lost. 

The  minstrel,  more  pensive,  went  deep  in  the 

wood, 
And   oft-time    delay'd   him   the  whole  day 

through, 
As  charm'd  by  the  deeps,  or  the  sad  heart 

drew 
Some  solaces  sweet  from  the  solitude. 

The  singer  forsook  them  at  last,  and  the  Queen 
Came  seldom  then  forth  from  the  fierce  deep 

wood, 

And  her  warriors,  dark-brow'd  and  bewilder- 
ing stood 


1 84  ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

In  bands  by  the  wave  in  the  complicate  screen 
Of  overbent  boughs.    They  would  lean  on  their 

spears 
And  would  sometimes  talk,  low-voiced  and 

by  twos, 

As  allured  by  longings  they  could  not  refuse, 
And   would   sidewise   look,  as   beset  by  their 
fears. 

Once,  wearied  and  sad,  by  the  shadowy  trees 
In  the  flush  of  the  sun  they  sank  to  their 

rests, 
The  dark  hair  veiling  the  beautiful  breasts 

That  arose  in  billows,  as  mists  veil  seas. 

Then  away  to  the  dream-world  one  and  by  one; 
The  great  red  sun  in  his  purple  was  roll'd, 
And  red-wing'd  birds  and  the  birds  of  gold 

Were  above  in  the  trees  like  the  beams  of  the 
sun. 

Then  the  sun  came  down,  with  his  ladders  of 

gold 

Built  up  of  his  beams,  and  the  souls  arose 
And  ascended  on  these,  and  the  fair  repose 

Of  the  negligent  forms  was  a  feast  to  behold. 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  185 

The  round  brown  limbs  they  were  reach'd  or 
drawn, 

The  grass  made  dark  with  the  fervour  of  hair; 

And  here  were  the  rose-red  lips  and  there 
A  flush'd  breast  rose  like  a  sun  at  a  dawn. 

Then  black-wing'd  birds  blew  over  in  pair, 
Listless  and  slow,  as  they  call'd  of  the  seas 
And  sounds  came  down  through  the  tangle 
of  trees 

As  lost,  and  nestled,  and  hid  in  their  hair. 

They  started  disturb'd,  they  sprang  as  at  war 
To  lance  and   to   shield;  but   the    dolorous 

sound 
Was  gone  from  the  wood;  they  gazed  around 

And  saw  but  the  birds,  black-wing'd  and  afar. 

They  gazed  at  each    other,  then  turn'd  them 

unheard, 

Slowtrailing  their  lances,  in  long  single  line; 
They  moved  through  the  forest,  all  dark  as 

the  sign 
Of  death  that  fell  down  from  the  ominous  bird. 

Then  the  great  sun  died,  and  a  rose-red  bloom 


186  ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS. 

Grew  over  his  grave  in  a  border  of  gold, 
And  a  cloud  with  a  silver-white  rim  was  roll'd 
Like  a  cold  grey  stone  at  the  door  of  his  tomb. 


Strange  voices  were    heard,  sad  visions  were 

seen, 

By  sentries,  betimes,  on  the  opposite  shore, 
Where  broad  boughs  bended  their  curtains  of 

green 
Far  over  the  wave  with  their  tropical   store. 

A  sentry  bent  low  on  her  palms  and  she  peer'd 
Suspiciously  through;  and,  heavens!  a  man, 

Low-brow'd  and  wicked,  look'd  backward,  and 

jeer'd 
And  taunted  right  full  in  her  face  as  he  ran: 

A  low  crooked  man,  with  eyes  like  a  bird, — 
As  round  and  as  cunning, — who  came  from 

the  land 

Of  lakes,  where  the  clouds  lie  low  and  at  hand, 
And  the  songs  of  the  bent   black  swans   are 

heard; 
Where  men  are  most  cunning  and  cruel  withal, 


ISLES   OF   THE   AMAZONS.  187 

And  are  famous  as  spies,  and  are  supple  and 

fleet, 
And   are  webb'd  like  the  water-fowl  under 

the  feet, 
And  they  swim  like  the  swans,  and  like  pelicans 

call. 

And  again,  on  a  night  when  the  moon  she  was 

not, 

A  sentry  saw  stealing,  as  still  as  a  dream, 
A  sudden  canoe  down  the  mid  of  the  stream, 
Like  the  dark  boat  of  death,  and  as  still  as  a 
thought. 

And  lo!  as  it  pass'd,  from  the  prow  there  arose 
A  dreadful  and  gibbering,  hairy  old  man, 
Loud  laughing  as  only  a  maniac  can, 

And  shaking  a  lance  at  the  land  of  his  foes; 

Then  sudden  it  vanish'd,  as  still  as  it  came, 
Far  down  through  the  walls  of  the  shadowy 
wood, 

And  the  great  moon  rose  like  a  forest  aflame, 
All  threat'ning,  sullen,  and  red  like  blood. 


PART    V. 

T  T  "TELL,  we  have  threaded  through  and  through 

•"  *        The  gloaming  forests.    Fairy  Isles, 

Afloat  in  sun  and  summer  smiles. 
As  fallen  stars  infields  of  blue; 

Some  futile  wars  with  subtile  love 
That  mortal  never  vanquish? d  yet. 
Some  symphonies  by  angels  set 

In  wave  below,  in  bough  above, 
Were  yours  and  mine ;  but  here  adieu. 

And  if  it  come  to  pass  some  days 

That  you  grow  weary,  sad,  and  you 
Lift  up  deep  eyes  from  dusty  ways 

Of  mart  and  moneys,  to  the  blue 
And  pure  cool  waters,  isle  and  vine. 

And  bathe  you  there,  and  then  arise 
Refreshed  by  one  fresh  thought  of  mine, 

I  rest  content :  I  kis-t  your  eyes, 
I  kiss  your  hair,  in  mi/  di  light: 
I  kiss  my  hand,  and  say,  "Good-night." 

May  love  be  thine  by  sun  or  moon. 

May  peace  be  thine  bi/  peaceful  way 

Throuqh  all  the  darling  dai/s  of  At  ay. 
Through  all  the  genial  days  of  June, 

To  golden  day*  that  die  in  smiles 

Of  sunset  on  the  blessed  Isles. 


188 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  189 


I  TELL  you  that  love  is  the  bitterest  sweet 
That  ever  laid  hold  on  the  heart  of  a  man; 
A  chain  to  the  soul,  and  to  cheer  as  ban, 
And  a  bane  to  the  brain  and  a  snare  to  the  feet. 

Aye!  who   shall   ascend   on  the  hollow  white 

wings 

Of  love  but  to  fall;  to  fall  and  to  learn, 
Like  a  moth,  or  a  man,  that  the  lights  lure 

to  burn, 

That  the  roses  have  thorns  and  the  honey-bee 
stings? 

I  say  to  you  surely  that  grief  shall  befall; 
I  lift  you  my  finger,  I  caution  you  true, 
And  yet  you  go  forward,  laugh  gaily,  and  you 

Must  learn  for  yourself,  then  mourn  for  us  a!!. 

You  had  better  be  drown'd  than  to  love  and  to 

dream, 

It  were  better  to  sit  on  a  moss-grown  stone, 
And  away  from  the  sun,  forever  alone, 
Slow  pitching  white  pebbles   at   trout    in    the 
stream. 


igO  ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

Alas  for  a  heart  that  is  left  forlorn! 

If  you  live  you  must  love;  if  you  love,  regret- 
It  were  better,  perhaps,  had  you  never  been 
born, 

Or  better,  at  least,  you  could  well  forget. 

The  clouds  are  above  us  and  snowy  and  cold, 
And  what  is  beyond  but  the  steel  grey  sky, 
And  the  still  far  stars  that  twinkle  and  lie 

Like  the  eyes  of  a  love  or  delusions  of  gold! 

Ah!  who  would  ascend?  The  clouds  are  above. 

Aye!  all  things  perish;  to  rise  is  to  fall. 
And  alack  for  lovers,  and  alas  for  love, 

And  alas  that  we  ever  were  born  at  all. 

The  minstrel  now  stood  by  the  border  of  wood, 
But  not  now  alone;  with  a  resolute  heart 

lie  reach'd  his  hand,  like  to  one  made  strong, 
Forgot  his  silence  and  resumed  his  song, 
And  aroused  his  soul,  and  assumed  his  part 
With  a  passionate  will,  in  the  palms  where  he 
stdod. 

"She  is  sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  Castile  rose, 
She  is  warm  to  the  heart  as  a  world  of  wine, 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  IQI 

And  as  rich  to  behold  as  the  rose  that  grows 
With  its  red  heart  bent  to  the  tide  of  the  Rhine. 

"I  shall  sip  her  lips  as  the  brown  bees  sup 
From  the  great  gold  heart  of  the  buttercup! 

I  shall  live  and  love!     I  shall  have  my  day, 

And  die  in  my  time,  and  who  shall  gainsay? 
"  What  boots  me  the  battles  that  I  have  fought 

With  self  for  honor?     My  brave  resolves? 

And  who  takes  note?    The  soul  dissolves 
In  a  sea  of  love,  and  the  lands  are  forgot. 

"  The  march  of  men,  and  the  drift  of  ships, 
The   dreams   of  fame,   and  desires  for  gold, 
Shall  go  for  aye,  as  a  tale  that  is  told, 

Nor  divide  for  a  day  my  lips  from  her  lips. 

"  And  a  knight  shall  rest,  and  none  shall  say 

nay, 

In  a  green  Isle  vvash'd  by  an  arm  of  the  seas, 
And  wall'd   from    the   world   by  the   white 

Andes; 
For  years  are  of  age  and  can  go  their  way." 


I Q2  ISL'ES   OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

A  sentinel  stood  on  the  farthermost  land, 
And  struck  her  shield,  and  her  sword  in  hand, 
She  cried,  "  He  comes  with   his  silver  spears, 
With  flint-tipp'd  arrows  and  bended  bows, 
To  take  our  blood,  though  we  give  him  tears, 
And  to  flood  our  Isle  in  a  world  of  woes. 

"  He  comes,  O  Queen  of  the  sun-kiss'd  Isle, 
He  comes  as  a  wind   comes,  blown  from  the 

seas, 
In  a  cloud  of  canoes,  on  the  curling  breeze, 

With  his  shields  of  tortoise  and  of  crocodile." 


Sweeter  than  swans  are  a  maiden's  graces! 

Sweeter  than  fruits  are  the  kisses  of  morn! 

Sweeter  than  babes  is  a  love  new-born, 
But  sweeter  than  all  are  a  love's  embraces. 

The  Queen  was  at  peace.     Her  terms  of  sur- 
render 

To  love,  who  knows?  and  who  can  defend  her? 
She  slept  at  peace,  and  the  sentry's  warning 
Could    scarcely  awaken  the  lovc-conquer'd 
Queen; 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS.  IQ3 

She  slept  at  peace  in  the  opaline 
Hush  and  blush  of  that  tropical  morning; 

And  bound  about  by  the  twining  glory, 
Vine  and  trellis  in  the  vernal  morn, 
As  still  and  sweet  as  a  babe  new-born, 

The  brown    Queen   dream'd   of  the  old  new 
story. 

But  hark!  her  sentry's  passionate  words, 
The  sound  of  shields,  and  the  clash  of  swords! 
And  slow  she  came,  her  head  on  her  breast, 
And  her  two  hands  held  as  to  plead  for  rest. 

Where,  O  where,  were  the  Juno  graces? 

Where,  O  where  was  the  glance  of  Jove, 
As  the   Queen    crept   forth    from  the   sacred 
places, 

Hidden  away  in  the  heart  of  the  grove? 

They  rallied  around  as  of  old, — they  besought 

her, 
With   swords  to  the  sun  and  the    sounding 

shield, 
To  lead  them  again  to  the  glorious  field, 

13 


194  ISLES   OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

So  sacred   to    Freedom  ;  and,  breathless,  they 

brought  her 
Her   buckler   and   sword,  and    her  armor    all 

bright 

With  a  thousand  gems  enjewell'd  in  gold, 
She  lifted  her  head  with  the  look  of  old, 
An  instant  only;  with  all  of  her  might 
She  sought  to  be  strong  and  majestic  again : 
She   bared   them   her  arms  and  her   ample 

brown  breast ; 

They  lifted  her  armor,  they  strove  to  invest 
Her  form  in  armor,  but  they  strove  in  vain  ; 
It  could  close  no  more,  but  it  clang'd  on  the 

ground, 

Like  the  fall  of  a  knight,  with  an  ominous  sound, 
And  she  shook  her  hair  and  she  cried,  "Alas ! 
That  love  should  come  and  that  life  should  pass ;" 
And  she  cried,  "Alas !  to  be  cursed  .  .  .  and 

bless'd, 
For  the  nights  of  love  and  noons  of  rest." 

Her  warriors  wonder'd  ;  they  wander'd  apart, 
And  trail'd  their  swords,  and  subdued  their 

eyes 
To  earth  in  sorrow  and  in  hush'd  surprise, 

And  forgot  themselves  in  their  pity  of  heart. 


ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS.  195 

"O  Isles  of  the  sun,"  sang  the  blue-eyed  youth. 

"  O  Edens  new-made  and  let  down  from  above! 

Be  sacred  to  peace  and  to  passionate  love, 
Made  happy  in  peace  and  made  holy  with  truth. 

"O  gardens  of  God,  new-planted  below! 

Shall  rivers  be  red  ?  Shall  day  be  as  night  ?" 
Then  he  stood  in  the  wood  with  his. face  to  the 
foe, 

Apart  with  his  buckler  and  sword  for  the  fight. 

But  the  fair  Isle  fill'd  with  the  fierce  invader  ; 

They  form'd  on  the  strand,  they  lifted  their 
spears, 

Where  never  was  man  for  years  and  for  years, 
And  moved  on  the  Queen.    She  lifted  and  laid 

her 
Finger-tip  to  her  lips.    For  O  sweet 

Was  the  song  of  love,  to  the  sense  new-born, 

That  the  minstrel  blew  in  the  virgin  morn, 
Away  where  the  trees  and  the  soft  sands  meet. 

The  strong  men  lean'd  and  their  shields  let  fall, 
And  slowly  they  moved  with  their  trailing 
spears, 


196  ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS. 

And  heads  bow'd  down  as  if  bent  with  years, 
And  an  air  of  gentleness  over  them  all. 

The  men  grew  glad  as  the  song  ascended, 
They  lean'd  their  lances  against  the  palms, 
They  reach'd  their  arms  as  to  reach  for  alms, 

And  the  Amazons  came — and  their  reign  was 
ended. 

They  reach'd  their  arms  to  the  arms  extended, 
Put  by  their  swords,  and  no  more  secm'cl  sad, 

But  moved  as  the  men  moved,  tall  and  splendid — 
Mingled  together,  and  were  all  made  glad. 

Then  the  Queen  stood  tall,  as  of  old  she  had 

stood, 
With  her  face  to  the  sun  and  her  breast  to 

the  foe ; 

Then  moved  like  a  King,  unheeding  and  slow, 
And  aside  to  the  singer  in  the  fringe  of  the  wood. 

She  led  him  forth,  and  she  bade  him  sing  : 
Then  bade  him  cease  ;  and  the  gold  of  his  hair 
She  touch'd  with  her  hands  ;  she  embraced 
him  there, 

Then  lifted  her  voice  and  proclaimed  him  King. 


ISLES   OF   THE  AMAZONS.  197 

And  the  men  made  fond  in  their  new-found  loves 

Cried, "  King  and  Queen ! "  and  again  and  again 

Cried,  "  Long  may  they  live,   and  long  may 

they  reign, 
As  true  in  their  loves  as  the  red-bill'd  doves  : 

"Ay,  long  maytheylive.andlongmaytheylove, 
And  their  blue-eyed  babes  with  the  years  in- 
crease, 
And  we  all  have  love,  and  we  all  have  peace, 

While  the  seas  are  below  or  the  sun  is  above. 

"  Let  the  winds  blow  fair  and  the  fruits  be  gold, 
And  the  gods  be  gracious  to  King  and  to 

Queen, 
While  the    tides    are    grey    or  the    Isles  are 

green, 
Or  the  moons  wax  new.orthemoonswaneold!" 

The  tawny  old  crone  here  lays  her  stone 

On  the  leaning  grass  and  reaches  a  hand  ; 
The  day  like  a  beautiful  dream  has  flown, 

The  curtains  of  night  come  down  on  the  land, 
And  I  dip  to  the  oars  ;  but  ere  I  go, 
I  tip  her  an  extra  bright  pesos  or  so, 
And  I  smile  my  thanks,  for  I  think  them  due  : 
But,  fairest  of  readers,  now  what  think  you  ? 


OTHOU  To-morrow!    Mystery! 
day  that  ever  runs  before  ! 
What  has  thine  hidden  hand  in  store 
For  mine.  To-morrow,  and  for  me? 
O  thou  To-morrow!  what  hast  thou 
In  store  to  make  me  bear  the  noio? 

O  day  in  which  we  shall  forget 
The  tangled  troubles  of  to-day! 
Oday  that  laughs  at  duns,  at  debt.' 
O  day  of  promises  to  pay  ! 
O  shelter  from  a' I  present  storm! 
O  day  in  which  we  shall  reform.' 

O  days  of  all  days  to  reform ! 
Convenient  day  of  promises  ! 
Hold  back  the  shadow  of  the  storm. 
Let  not  thy  mystery  be  less, 
O  bless' d  To-morrow!  chief est  friend. 
But  lead  us  blindfold  to  the  end. 


THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  REAL. 


PART  I. 


"  And  full  these  truths  eternal 
O'er  the  yearning  spirit  steal. 
That  the  real  it  the  ideal. 
And  the  ideal  is  the  real," 

SHE  was  damn'd  with  the  dower  of  beauty, 
she 

Had  gold  in  shower  by  shoulder  or  brow. 
Her  feet! — why,  her  two  blessed  feet,  so  small, 
They  could  nest  in  this  hand.      How  queenly 

tall, 

How  gracious,  how  grand !   She  was  all  to  me, — 
My  present,  my  past,  my  eternity! 
She  but  lives  in  my  dreams.     I  behold  her  now 
By  shoreless  waters  that  flow'd  like  a  sea 
At  her  feet  where  I  sat;  her  lips  push'd  out 
In  brave,  warm  welcome  of  dimple  and  pout! 
'Twas  aeons  agone.     By  that  river  that  ran 

199 


20O  THE    IDEAL    AND    THE     REAL. 

All  fathomless,  ccholess,  limitless,  on, 
And  shoreless,  and  peopled  with  never  a  man, 
We  met,  soul  to  soul. . . .   No  land;  yet  I  think 
There  were  willows  and   lilies  that   lean'd  to 

drink. 
The  stars  they  were  seal'd  and  the  moons  were 

gone. 

The  wide  shining  circles  that  girdled  that  world, 
They  were  distant  and  dim.     And  an  incense 

curl'd 

In  vapory  folds  from  that  river  that  ran 
All  shoreless,  with  never  the  presence  of  man. 

How   sensuous   the  night;   how  soft  was   the' 

sound 
Of  her  voice  on  the  night!    How  warm  was  her 

breath 
In   that   world   that   had    never  yet  tasted  of 

death 

Or  forbidden  sweet  fruit! In  that  far  pro- 
found 

We  were  camped  on  the  edges  of  god-land.    We 
\Vere  the  people  of  Saturn.     The  watery  fields, 
The  wide-wing'd,  dolorous  birds  of  the  sea, 
They  acknowledged  but  us.     Our  brave   battle 
shields 


THE    IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL.  201 

Were  my  naked  white  palms;  our  food   it  was 

love. 
Our  roof  was  the  fresco  of  gold  belts  above. 

How  turn'd  she  to  me  where  that  wide  river 

ran, 

With  its  lilies  and  willows  and  watery  reeds, 
And  heeded  as  only  your  true  love  heeds! . . . . 
How  tender  she  was,  and  how  timid   she  was! 
But  a  black-hoofed  beast,  with  the  head  of  a 

man, 
Stole  down  where  she  sat  at  my  side,  and  began 

To  puff  his  tan   cheeks,  then  to  play,  then  to 

pause, 
With  his  double-reed  pipe;  then  to  play  and  to 

play 

As  never  played  man  since  the  world  began, 
And  never  shall  play  till  the  judgement  day. 

How  he   puff'd!  how  he   play'd!     Then  adown 

the  dim  shore, 

This  half-devil  man,  all  hairy  and  black, 
Did  dance  with  his    hoofs  in  the  sand,  looking 

back 


202  THE    IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL. 

As  his   song  died  away She   turned   never 

more 

Unto  me  after  that.  She  rose,  and  she  pass'd 
Right  on  from  my  sight.  Then  I  followed  as 

fast 

As  a  true  love  could  follow.  But  ever  before 
Like  a  spirit  she  fled.  How  vain  and  how  far 
Did  I  follow  my  beauty,  red  belt  to  white  star! 
Through  foamy  white  sea,  unto  storm  stricken 

shore! 

How  long  I  did   follow!     My   pent  soul  of  fire' 
It  did  feed  on  itself.     I  fasted,  I  cried; 
Was  tempted  by  many.     Yet  still  I  denied 
The  touch  of  all  things,  and  kept  my  desire. . . 
I  stood  by  the  lion  of  St.  Mark  in  that  hour 
Of  Venice  when  gold  of  the  sunset  is  roll'd 
From  cloud  to  cathedral,  from  turret  to  tower, 
In  matchless,  magnificent  garments  of  gold; 
Then  I  knew  she  was  near;  yet  I  had  not  known 
Her  form  or   her  face  since  the  red  stars  were 
sown. 

We  two  had  been  parted — God  pity  us! — when 
This  world  was  unnamed  and  all  heaven  was  dim; 


THE    IDEAL    AND    THE     REAL.  2O3 

We  two  had  been  parted  far  back  on  the  rim 
And  the  outermost  border  of  heaven's  red  bars; 
We  two   had   been  parted   ere  the   meeting  of 

men, 

Or  God  had  set  compass  on  spaces  as  yet; 
We  two  had  been  parted  ere  God  had  once  set 
His  finger  to  spinning  the  purple  with  stars, — 
And  now  at  the  last  in  the  golden  fret 
Of  the  sun  of  Venice,  we  two  had  met. 

Where  the  lion  of  Venice,  with   brows  a-frown, 
With  tossed  mane  tumbled,  and  teeth  in  air, 
Looks  out  in  his  watch  o'er  the  watery  town, 
With  a  paw  half  lifted,  with  claws  half  bare, 
By  the  blue  Adriatic,  on  the  edge  of  the  sea, — 
I  saw   her.     I  knew  her,  but  she  knew  not  me. 
I  had  found  her  at  last!     Why  I,  I  had  sail'cl 
The  antipodes  through,  had   sought,  and   had 

hail'd 
All  flags;  I  had  climbed  where  the  storm  clouds 

curl'd, 
And  call'd  o'er  the  awful  arch'd  domes  oT  the 

world. 

I    but    saw    her   one    moment,    then   fell  back 
abash'd, 


204  THE    IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL. 

And  fill'd  to  the  throat Then  turn'd  me 

once  more, 

Thanking  God  in  my  soul,  while  the   level  sun 
flashed 

Happy  halos  about  her.    .     .    .    Her  breast!— 

why,  her  breast 

Was  white  as  twin  pillows  that  lure  you  to  rest. 
Her  sloping  limbs  moved  like  to  melodies  told, 
As  she  rose  from  the  sea,  and  threw  back  the 

gold 

Of  her  glorious  hair,  and  set  face  to  the  shore.  . 
I  knew  her!  I  knew  her,  though  we  had  not 

met 
Since  the  red  stars  sang  to  the  sun's  first  set! 

How  long  I  had  sought  her!     I  had  hunger'd, 

nor  ate 

Of  any  sweet  fruits.     I  had  followed  not  one 
Of  all  the  fair  glories  grown  under  the  sun. 
I  had  sought  only  her.     Yes,  I  knew  well  that 

she 

Had  come  upon  earth,  and  stood  waiting  forme 
Somewhere  by  my  way.  But  the  pathways  of 

Fate 
They  had    led   otherwhere;    the    round  world 

round, 


THE    IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL.  205 

The  far  North  seas  and  the  near  profound 
Had  fail'd  me  for  aye.     Now  I  stood  by  that  sea 
Where  she  bathed  in  her  beauty,  God,  I  and  she! 

I  spake  not,  but  caught  at  my  breath;  I  did  raise 
My  face  to  fair  heaven  to  give  God  praise 
That  at  last,  ere  the  ending  of  Time,  we  have 

met, 
Had    touch'd    upon  earth  at  the   same   sweet 

place.  .  .  . 

Yea,  we  never  had  met  since  creation  at  all; 
Never,  since  ages  ere  Adam's  fall, 
Had  we  two  met  in  that  hunger  and  fret 
Where  two   feast    as   one,   but    had  wander'd 

through  space; 
Through  space,  and  through  spheres,  as  some 

bird  that  hard  fate 
Gives  a  million  glad  Springs  but  never  one  mate. 

Was  it  well  with  my  love?     Was  she  true?  Was 

she  brave 
With  virtue's  own  valor?      Was  she  waiting  for 

me? 
Oh,  how  fared  my  love?    Had  she  home?  had 

she  bread? 


2O6  THE    IDEAL    AND    THE     REAL. 

Had  she  known  but  the  touch  of  the  warm- 

temper'd  wave? 
Was  she  born  upon  earth  with  a  crown  on  her 

head, 

Or  born,  like  myself,  but  a  dreamer  instead?  .  . 
So  long  it  had  been!  So  long!  Why,  the  sea — 
That  wrinkled  and  surly,  old,  time-tcmper'd 

slave — 
Had  been  born,  had  his  revels,  grown  wrinkled 

and  hoar 
Since  I  last  saw   my  love   on   that    uttermost 

shore. 

Oh,  how  fared  my  love?  Once  I  lifted  my  face, 
And  I  shook  back  my  hair  and  look'd  out  on 

the  sea; 

I  press'd  my  hot  palms  as  I  stood  in  my  place, 
And  I  cried  "Oh,  I  come  like  a  king  to  your 

side 
Though  all  hell  intervene!"  .     .     .     "Hist!  she 

may  be  a  bride, 
A  mother   at  peace,  with  sweet  babes  on  her 

knee! 

A  babe  at  her  breast  and  a  spouse  at  her  side!— 
Have  I  wander'd  too  long,  and  has  Destiny 


THE    IDEAL    AND    THE     REAL.  2OJ 

Set  mortal  between  us  ?"  I  buried  my  face 
In  my  hands,  and  I  moan'd  as  I  stood  in  my 
place. 

'Twas  her  year  to  be  young.    She  was  tall,  she 

was  fair — 

Was  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over  there? 
'Twas  her  year  to  be  young.     She  was  queenly 

and  tall  ; 

And  I  felt  she  was  true,  as  I  lifted  my  face 
And  saw  her  press  down  her  rich  robe  to  its 

place, 
With  a  hand  white  and  small  as  a  babe's  with  a 

doll. 

And  her  feet ! — why,  her  feet  in  the  white  shin- 
ing sand 
Were  so  small,  'twas  a  wonder  the  maiden  could 

stand. 
Then  she  push'd  back  her  hair  with  a  round 

hand  that  shone 
And  flash'd  in  the  light  with  a  white  starry  stone. 

Then  my  love  she  is  rich !  My  love  she  is  fair  ! 
Is  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over  there? 
She  is  gorgeous  with  wealth  !  "Thank  God,  she 
has  bread," 


2C>8  THE    IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL. 

I  said  to  myself.     Then  I  humbled  my  head 
In  gratitude  deep.    Then  I  question'd  me  where 
Was  her  palace,  her  parents  ?    What  name  did 

she  bear  ? 

What  mortal  on  earth  came  nearest  her  heart  ? 
Who  touch'd  the  small  hand  till  it  thrill'd  to  a 

smart? 
Tvvas  her  year  to  be  young.     She  was  proud, 

she  was  fair- 
Was  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over  there? 

She  loosen'd  her  robe  that  was  blue  like  the  sea, 
And  silken  and  soft  as  a  baby's  new  born. 
And  my  heart  it  leap'd  light  as  the  sunlight  at 

morn 

At  the  sight  of  my  love  in  her  proud  purity, 
As  she  rose  like  a  Naiad  half-robed  from  the 

sea. 

Then  careless  and  calm  as  a  queen  can  be, 
She  loosed  and  let  fall  all  the  raiment  of  blue, 
As  she  drew  a  white  robe  in  a  melody 
Of  moving  white  limbs,  while  between  the  two, 
Like  a  rift  in  a  cloud,  shone  her  fair  form  through. 

Soon  she  turn'd,  reach'dahand  ;  then  a  tall  gon- 
dolier 


THE    IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL.  2OQ 

Who  had  lean'd  on  his  oar,  like  a  long  lifted 

spear, 

Shot  sudden  and  swift  and  all  silently, 
And  drew  to  her  side  as  she  turn'd  from  the  tide. 
It  was  odd,  such  a  thing,  and  I  counted  it  queer 
That  a  princess  like  this,  whether  virgin  or  bride, 
Should  abide  thus  apart  as  she  bathed  in  the 

sea  ; 

And  I  shook  back  my  hair,  and  so  unsatisfied  ! 
That  I  flutter'd  the   doves   that  were  perch 'd 

close  about, 
As  I  strode  up  and  down  in  dismay  and  in  doubt. 

Swift  she  stept  in  the  boat  on  the  borders  of 
night 

As  a  goddess  might  stand  on  that  far  wonder- 
land 

Of  eternal  sweet  life,  which  men  mis-name 
Death. 

I  turn'd  to  the  sea,  and  I  caught  at  my  breath 

As  she  sat  in  the  boat,  and  her  white  baby  hand 

Held  vestments  of  purple  to  her  throat,  snowy 
white. 

Then  the  gondola  shot, — shot  sharp  from  the 
shore: 

14 


2IO       THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  REAL. 

There  was  never  the  sound  of  a  song  or  of  oar, 
But  the  doves  hurried  home  in  white  clouds  to 

Saint  Mark, 
Where  the  brass   horses   plunged   their  high 

manes  in  the  dark. 

Then  I  cried,  cried:  "  Follow  her!    Follow  her! 

Fast! 

Come,  thrice  double  fare,  if  you  follow  her  true 
To  her  own  palace  door!  "  There  was  plashing 

of  oar 

And  rattle  of  rowlock.  ...  I  sat  leaning  low, 
Looking  far  in  the  dark,  peering  out  as  we  sped 
With  my  soul  all  alert,  bending  down,  leaning 

so  ... 

But  only  the  oaths  of  the  men  as  we  pass'd, 
When  we  jostled  them  sharp  as  we  sudden  shot 

through 

The  watery  town.  Then  a  deep,  distant  roar — 
The  rattle  of  rowlock,  the  rush  of  the  oar. 

We  rock'd  and  we  rode:  then  the  oars  keeping 

pace 
Gave  stroke  for  short  stroke  in  the  swift  stormy 

chase. 


THE    IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL.  211 

I  lifted  my  face,  andlo!  far,  fitfully 

The  heavens  breathed  lightning:  it  did  lift  and 

fall 
As  if  angels  were  parting  God's  curtains.    Then 

deep 

And  indolent-like,  and  as  if  half  asleep, 
As  if  half  made  angry  to  move  at  all, 
The  thunder  moved.     It  confronted  me. 
It  stood  like  an  avalanche  poised  on  a  hill, 
I  saw  its  black  brows.     I  heard  it  stand  still. 

The  pent  sea  throbb'd  as  if  rack'd  with  pain. 
Then  the  black  clouds  rose  and  suddenly  rode, 
As  a  fiery  rider  that  knows  no  rein, 
Right  into  the  town.     Then  the  thunder  strode 
As  a  giant  striding  from  star  unto  star, 
Then  turn'd  upon  earth  and  frantically  came, 
Shaking  the  hollow  heaven.     And  far 
And  near  red  lightning  in  ribbon  and  skein 
Did  seam  and  furrow  the  cloud  with  flame, 
And  write  upon  heaven  Jehovah's  name. 

Then    lightnings   came    weaving   like  shuttle- 
cocks, 
Weaving  black  raiment  out  of  clouds  for  death. 


212  THE    IDEAL    AND    THE     REAL. 

The  doves  have  swept  to  Saint  Marco  in  flocks, 
And  mantled   men    hied   them   with   gather'd 

breath. 

Black  gondolas  gathered  as  never  before, 
And  drew  like  crocodiles  up  on  the  shore; 
And  vessels  at  sea  stood  further  at  sea, 
And  seamen  haul'd  with  a  bended  knee, 
And  canvas  came  down  to  left  and  to  right, 
Till  ships  stood  stripp'd  as  if  stripp'd  for  fight! 

Yet  on!  on!  on  where  a  huge  house  loomed 
With  its  four  walls  wash'd  by  the  foamy  sea; 
Twas  the  place  where  Shelley  once  loved  to  be. 
I  heard  in  the  heavens  the  howl  of  the  doomed! 
High  up  in  the  dark  I  did  hear  men  shout; 
And  I  lifted  my  eyes  as  the  lightnings  fell, 
And  I  saw  hands  thrust  through  the  bars;  oh, 

well 

I  knew  'twas  the  madhouse  howling  at  me; 
So  doleful,  so  lorn!     Like  a  land  cast  out, 
And  awful  as  Lucifer  throned  in  hell. 

Then  an  oath.  Then  a  prayer.  Then  a  gust 
with  rents 

Through  the  yellow  sail'd  fishers.  Then  sud- 
denly 


THE   IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL.  213 

Came  sharp  fork'd  fire!     Then  again  thunder 

fell 
Like  the  great  first  gun!     Ah,  then  there  was 

rout 

Of  ships  like  the  breaking  of  regiments, 
And  shouts  as  if  hurled  from  an  upper  hell. 
Then  tempest!     It  lifted,  it  spun  us  about, 
Then  shot  us  ahead  through  the  hills  of  the 

sea 

As  if  a  steel  arrow  shot  shoreward  in  wars — 
Then  the  storm  split  open  till  I  saw  the  blown 

stars. 

On!  on!  through  the  foam!  through  the  storm! 

through  the  town! 

She  was  gone!     She  was  lost  in  the  wilderness 
Of  palaces,  lifting  their  marbles  of  snow. 
I  stood  in  my  gondola.     Up  and  all  down 
We  pushed  through  the  surge  of  the  salt-flood 

street 

Above  and  below.  .  .  .  'Twas  only  the  beat 
Of  the  sea's  sad  heart.  .  .  .  Then  I  listened. 

But  oh, 
Twas  the  water-rat  building,  and  nothing  but 

that; 


214  THE    IDEAL    AND    THE     REAL. 

Not  even  the  sea-bird  screaming  distress, 
As  she  lost  her  way  in  that  wilderness. 

I  listen'd  all  night.     I  caught  at  each  sound; 
I  clutch'cf  and  I  caught  as  a  man  that  drown'd— 
Only  the  sullen,  low  growl  of  the  sea 
Far  out  the    flood-street  at  the    edge  of  the 

ships: 

Only  the  billow  slow  licking  his  lips, 
Like  a  dog  that  lay  crouching  there  watching 

for  me — 

Growling  and  showing  white  teeth  all  the  night, 
Reaching  his  neck  and  as  ready  to  bite: 
Only  the  waves  with  their  salt-flood  tears 
Sad  fawning  white  stones  of  a  thousand  years. 

Only  night  birds  in  the  loftiness 
Of  column  and  dome  and  of  glittering  spire 
That  thrust  to  heaven  and  held  the  fire 
Of  the  thunder  still;  the  bird's  distress 
As  he  struck  his  wings  in  that  wilderness, 
On  marbles    that     speak,  and  thrill,  and   in- 
spire.— 

The  night  below  and  the  night  above; 
The  water-rat  building,  the  startled  white  dove. 


THE    IDEAL    AND    THE     REAL.  215 

The  wide-wing'd,  dolorous,  night-bird's  call, 
The  water-rat  building, — but  that  was  all. 

Silently,  slowly,  all  up  and  all  down, 

I  row'd  and  I  row'd  me  for  many  an  hSur, 

By  beetling  palace  and  toppling  tower, 

In  the  dark  and  the  deep  of  the  watery  town. 

Only  the  water-rat  building  by  stealth, 

Only  the  night-bird  astray  in  his  flight 

As  he  struck  his  wings  in  the  clouds  of  night, 

On  spires  that  sprang  from  old  Adria's  wealth; 

On  marbles  that  move  with  their  eloquence, 

On  statues  so  sweeter  than  utterance. 

Then,  pushing  the  darkness  from  pillar  to  post, 
The  morning  came  sullen  and  grey  like  a  ghost 
Slow  up  the  canal.     I  lean'd  from  the  prow, 
And  listen'd.     Not  even  the  bird  in  distress 
Screaming  above  through  the  wilderness; 
Not  even  the  stealthy  old  water-rat  now. 
Only  the  bell  in  the  fisherman's  tower, 
Slow  tolling  at  sea  and  telling  the  hour 
To  kneel  to  their  sweet  Santa  Barbara 
For  tawny  fishers  at  sea,  and  to  pray. 


PART   II. 

HIGH  over  my  head,  carved  cornice,  quaint 
spire. 
And    ancient  built  palaces  knock'd  their  grey 

brows 
Together   and    frown'd.      Then    slow-creeping 

scows 
Scraped  the  walls  on  each  side.     Above  me  the 

fire 

Of  sudden-born  morning  came  flaming  in  bars; 
While  up  through  the  chasm  I  could  count  the 

stars. 

Oh,  pity!     Such  ruin!     The  dank  smell  of  death 
Crept   up   the  canal:     I  could  scarce  take  my 

breath ! 
'Twas  the  fit  place  for  pirates,  for  women  who 

keep 
Contagion  of  body  and  soul  where  they  sleep.  .  . 

Great  heavens!     A  white  hand  now  beckon'd  to 

me 
From  an  old  mouldy  door,  almost  in  my  reach. 

216 


THE    IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL.  217 

I  sprang  to  the  sill  as  one  wrecked  to  a  beach; 
I  sprang   with   wide   arms:    it  was  she!  it  was 

she!  ,  .  . 
And  in  such  a  damn'd  place!  And  what  was  her 

trade? 

To  think  I  had  follow'd  so  faithful,  so  far 
From  eternity's  brink,  then  from  star  to  white 

star, 
To  find  her,  to  find  her,  nor  wife   nor  sweet 

maid! 

To  find  her  a  shameless  poor  creature  of  shame, 
A  nameless,  lost  body,  men  hardly  dared  name. 

All  alone  in  her  shame,  on  that  damp  dismal 

floor 

She  stood  to  entice  me.  ...  I  bow'd  me  before 
All-conquering  beauty.     I  call'd  her  my  queen. 
I  told  her  my  love  as  I  proudly  had  told 
My  love  had  I  found  her  as  pure  as  pure  gold. 
I  reach'd  her  my  hand,  as  fearless  a  man 
As  man  fronting  cannon.  I  cried,  "Hasten  forth 
To  the  sun!   There  are  lands  to  the  south,  to 

the  north, 
Anywhere  you  will.      Dash   the   shame    from 

your  brow; 


2l8  THE   IDEAL    AND    THE     REAL. 

Come  with  me,  for  ever;  and    come  with  me 
now! " 

Why,  I  had  turn'd  pirate  for  her!  I  had  seen 
Ships  burn'd    from    the   seas,    like  to    stubble 

from  field. 
Would  I  turn  from  her  now?     Why  should  I 

now  yield, 
When  she  needed  me  most?  Had  I  found  her 

a  queen, 
And  beloved  by  the  world, — why,  what  had  I 

done? 
I  had  woo'd,  and  had  woo'd,  and  had  woo'd  till 

I  won! 
Then,  if  I  had  loved  her  with  gold  and    fair 

fame, 
Would  not  I  now  love  her,  and  love  her  the 

same  ? 
My  soul  hath  a  pride.       I   would  tear  out  my 

heart 
And  cast  it  to  dogs,  could  it  play  a  dog's  part. 

I  told  her  all  things.     Her  brow  took  a  frown; 
Her  grand  Titan  beauty,  so  tall,  so  serene, 
The  one  perfecfwoman,  mine  own  idol  queen — 


THE    IDEAL    AND    THE     REAL.  2IQ 

Her  proud  swelling  bosom,   it  broke  up  and 

down 
As  she  spake,  and  she  shook  in  her  soul  as  she 

said, 
With  her  small  hands  held  to  her  bent,  aching 

head: 

"Go  back  to  the  world!  go  back  and  alone! 
You  know  naught  of  all;  shame  and  death  mine 

own!  " 

I  said:  "  I  will  wait!  I  will  wait  in  the  pass 
Of  death,  until  Time  He  shall  break  his  glass  . 

'•Don't  you  know  me,  my  bride  of  the  wide 
worlds  of  zone? 

Why,  don't  you  remember  the  white  milky-way 

Of  stars,  that  we  traversed  the  aeons  before?  .  . 

We  were  counting  the  colors,  we  were  naming 
the  seas 

Of  the  vaster  ones.     You  remember  the  trees 

That  sway'd  in  the  cloudy  white  heavens,  and 
bore 

Bright  crystals  of  sweets,  and  the  sweet  manna- 
dew? 

Why,  you  smile  as  you  weep,  you  remember, 
and  you, 


220  THE    IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL. 

You  know  me!   You  know  me!    You  know  me! 

Yea, 
You  know  me  as  if  'twere  but  yesterday  ! 

"Now,  here  in  the  lands  where  the  gods  did 

love, 

Where  the  white  Europa  was  won, — she  rode 
Her  milk-white  bull  through  these  same  warm 

seas,- 

Yes,  here  in  the  land  where  the  Hercules, 
With  the  lion's  heart  and  the  heart  of  the  dove, 
Did  walk  in  his  naked  great  strength,  and  strode 
In  the  sensuous  air  with  his  lion's  skin 
Flapping  and  fretting  his  knotted  thews; 
Where  Theseus  did  wander,  and  Jason  cruise, — 
Lo  !  here  let  the  life  of  all  lives  begin. 

"Yea!  here  where  the  Orient  balms  blow  in, 
Where  heaven  is  kindest,  where  all  God's  blue 
Seems  a  great  gate  open'd  to  welcome  you, — 
Come,  rise  and  go  forth,  and  forget  your  sin  !  " 
Then  outspake  her  great  soul,  so  grander  far 
Than  I  had  believed  on  that  outermost  star; 
And  she  put  by  her  tears,  and  calmly  she  said, 
With  hands  enclasped  and  with  bended  head: 


THE    IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL.  221 

"  I  will  go  through  the  doors  of  death  and  wait 
For  you  on  the  innermost  side  of  the  gate." 

"  It  is  breaking  my  heart;  but  'tis  best,"  she  said. 
"Thank  God  that  this  life  is  but  a  day's  span, 
But  a  wayside  inn  for  woman,  oh,  man — 
A  night  and  a  day;  and,  to-morrow,  the  spell 
Of  darkness  is  broken.    Now,  darling,  farewell ! 
Nay,  touch  not  the  hem  of  my  robe — it  is  red 
With  sins  that  your  own  sex  heap'd  on  my  head  ! 
Now  turn,  yea  turn  !   But  remember  I  wait — 
Remember,  in  sackcloth,  I  shall  sit  down  and  wait 
Inside  Death's  door,  and  watch  at  the  gate." 

"  Nay,   nay,"   said    I,   "  love  !   go    patient    on 

through 

The  course  that  man  hath  compell'd  you  to; 
Then  come  to  your  mother,  the  earth,  my  love; 
Let  press  to  her  bosom  your  beautiful  brow 
Till  it  blends  with  her  clay,  and  so  purifies 
Your  flesh  of  the  stains  you  say  sully  it  now; 
Lie  down  in  the  loam,  the  populous  loam, 
Yea,  sleep  but  a  day  with  death;  then  rise 
As  white,  as  light  as  the  wings  of  a  dove, — 
And  so  made  holy,  oh  love,  come  home  ! 


222  THE    IDEAL    AND    THE     REAL. 

"  Farewell  for  a  night  !    And  now,  oh  my  love 

What  thing  on  earth  have  I  left  to  do? 

Why,  I  shall  sweep  down  through  death's  gate 

as  a  dove, 
And   wait   for  your    coming    your    swift    day 

through — 

Your  brave  soul  commanded,  lo !  I  shall  obey. 
I  shall  sit,  I  shall  wait  for  you,  love,  alway; 
I  shall  wait  by  the  side  of  the  gate  for  you, 
Waiting,  and  counting  the  days  as  I  wait, 
Yea,  wait  as  that  beggar  that  sat  by  the  gate 
Of  Jerusalem,  waiting  the  Judgment  Day." 


O    TERRIBLE  lion  of  tame  Saint  Mark! 
Tamed  old  lion  with  the  tumbled  man" 
Tossed  to  the  clouds  and  lo  t  in  the  dark. 
With  high-held  wings  and  tail-whipped  back. 
Foot  on  the  Bible  as  if  thy  track 
Led  thee  the  lord  of  the  desert  again 
Say,  what  of  thv  watch  o'er  the  watery  town? 
Say,  what  of  the  worlds  walking  up  and  down? 

O  silent  old  monarch  that  tops  Saint  Mark, 
That  sat  thy  throne  for  a  thousand  years. 
That  lorded  the  deep  that  defied  all  men, — 
Lo!  I  see  visions  at  sea  in  the  dark; 
And  I  see  something  that  shines  like  tears, 
And  I  hear  something  that  sounds  like  sighs. 
And  I  hear  something  that  sounds  as  when 
A  great  soul  suffers  and  sinks  and  dies. 


A  DOVE  OF  ST.  MARK 

THE  high-born,  beautiful  snow  came  down, 
Silent  and  soft  as  the  terrible  feet 
Of  time  on  the  mosses  of  ruins.     Sweet 
Was  the  Christmas  time  in  the  watery  town. 
'Twas  a  kind  of  carnival  swell'd  the  sea 
Of  Venice  that  night,  and  canal  and  quay 
Were  alive  with  humanity.     Man  and  maid, 
Glad  in  their  revel  and  masquerade, 
Moved  through  the  feathery  snow  in  the  night, 
And  shook  black  locks  as  they  laugh'd  outright. 

From  Santa  Maggiore,  and  to  and  fro, 
And  ugly  and  black  as  if  devils  cast  out, 
Black   streaks   through  the  night  in  the  soft, 

white  snow, 

The  steel-prow'd  gondolas  paddled  about: 
There  was  only  the  sound  of  the  long  oars'  dip, 
As  the  low  moon  sail'd  up  the  sea  like  a  ship 
In  a  misty  morn.     Then  the  low  moon  rose, 
Rose    veil'd   and   vast,   through   the   feathery 

snows, 

224 


A    DOVE    OF   ST.  MARK.  22$ 

As  a  minstrel  stept  silent  and  sad  from  his  boat, 
His  mantle  held  tight  in  his  hand  to  his  throat. 

"  Grim  lion,"  said  he,  "grim  guard  of  St.  Mark, 
Down  under  your  wings  on  the  edge  of  the  sea 
In  the  dim  of  the  lamps,  on  the  rim  of  the 

dark, 

Alone  I  sit  down  in  your  salt-flood  town. 
O  King  on  your  column,  all  sullenly, 
Wrinkle  your  brows  and  tumble  your  mane  ! 
But  the  spouse  turns  not  to  his  bride  again."  .  . 
Like  a  signal  light  through  the  storm  let  down, 
Then  a  far  star  fell  through  the  dim  profound  . 
A  jewel  that  slipp'd  God's  hand  to  the  ground. 

The  storm  has  blown  over!     Now  up  and  then 

down, 

Alone  and  in  couples,  sweet  women  they  pass, 
Silent  and  dreamy,  as  if  seen  in  a  glass, 
Half  mask'd  to  the  eyes,  in  their  Adrian  town, 
Such  women  !     It  breaks  one's  heart  to  think. 
Water  !  and  never  a  drop  to  drink  ! 
What  types  of  Titian  !     What  glory  of  hair  ! 
How  tall  as  the  sisters  of  Saul  !     How  fair  ! 
Sweet  flowers  of  flesh,  and  all  blossoming, 

15 


226  A    DOVE    OF   ST.  MARK. 

As  if  'twere  in  Eden,  and  in  Eden's  spring. 

"They  are  talking  aloud  with  all  their  eyes, 

Yet  passing  me  by  with  never  one  word. 

O  pouting  sweet  lips,  do  you  know  there  are 
lies 

That  are  told  with  the  eyes,  and  never  once 
heard 

Above  a  heart's  beat  when  the  soul  is  stirr'd? 

It  is  time  to  fly  home,  O  doves  of  St.  Mark! 

Take  boughs  of  the  olive;  bear  these  to  your 
ark, 

And  rest  and  be  glad,  for  the  seas  and  the  skies 

Of  Venice  are  fair.  .  .  .  What!  wouldn't 
go  home? 

What!  drifting,  as  drifting  as  the  soil'd  sea- 
foam? 

"And  who  then  are  you?     You!  you  so  fair! 
Your  sweet  child-face  is  a  rose  half-blown, 
Down  under  your  black  and  abundant  hair?  .  . 
A  child  of  the  street,  and  unloved  and  alone! 

Unloved;   and  alone? There   is  something 

then 

Between  us  two  that  is  not  unlike! 

The  strength  and  the  purposes  of  men 


A   DOVE    OF   ST.  MARK.  22? 

Fall  broken  idols.     We  aim  and  strike 
With  high-born  zeal  and  with  proud  intent. 
Yet   let  life  turn  on  some  accident. . 


"  Nay,  I'll  not  preach.     Time's  lessons  pass 
Like  twilight's  swallows.     They  chirp  in  their 

flight, 

And  who  takes  heed  of  the  wasting  glass? 
Night  follows  day,  and  day  follows  night, 
And  no  thing  rises  on  earth  but  to  fall 
Like  leaves,  with  their  lessons  most  sad  and  fit. 
They  are  spread  like  a  volume  each  year  to  all; 
Yet  men  nor  women  learn  aught  of  it, 
Or  after  it  all,  but  a  weariness 
Of  soul  and  body  and  untold  distress. 


"  Yea,  sit  sweet  child,  by  my  side,  and  we, 
\\  c  will  talk  of  the  world.     Nay,  let  my  hand 
Fall  round  your  waist,  and  so,  let  your  face 
Fall  down  on  my   shoulder,  and  you  shall  be 
My  dream  of  sweet  Italy.     Here  in  this  place, 
Alone  in  the  crowds   of  this  old  careless  land, 
I  will  mantle  your  form  till  the  morn  and  then- 
Why,  I  shall  return  to  the  world  and  to  men, 


228  A    DOVE    OF   ST.  MARK. 

And   you,  no  whit  stain'd    for   the   one    kind 

word 
And  some  eagles  of  gold,  my  sad  night  bird. 

"  Fear  nothing  from  me,  nay,  never  once  fear. 
The  day,  my  darling,  comes  after  the  night. 
The  nights  they  were  made  to  show  the  light 
Of  the  stars  in  heaven,  though   the   storms  be 

near 

Do  you  see  that  figure  of  Fortune  up  there, 
That  tops  the  Dogana  with  toe  a-tip 
Of  the  great  gold  ball?     Her  scroll  is  a-trip 
To  the  turning  winds.     She  is  light  as  the  air. 

"Well,  trust  to  Fortune. .  .  .Bread  on  the  wave 
Turns  ever  ashore  to  the  hand  that  gave. 
What  am  I  ?     A  poet — a  lover  of  all 
That    is   lovely    to   see.      Nay,   naught    shall 

befall .... 

Yes,  I  am  a  failure.     I  plot  and  I  plan, 
Give  splendid  advice  to  my  fellow-man, 

Yet  ever  fall  short  of  achievement Ah  me! 

In  my  life's  early,  sad  afternoon, 

Say,  what  have  I  left  but  a  rhyme  or  a  rune. 

A  hand  to  reach  to  a  soul  at  sea, 


A    DOVE    OF   ST.  MARK.  22Q 

Or  fair,  to  forbidden,  sweet  fruit  to  choose, 
That  'twere   sin  to  touch,  and — sin  to  refuse? 

"What!    I  to  go  home  with  you,  girl,  to-night? 
To  nestle  you  down  and  to  call  you  love? 
Well,  that  were  a  fancy!     To  feed  a  dove, 
A  poor,  soil'd  dove  of  this  dear  Saint  Mark, 
Too  frighten'd  for  rest  and  too  weary  for  flight. 
Nay,  nay,  my  sister;  in  spite  of  you, 
Sister  and  tempter,  I  will  be  true. . . . 
Now  here  'neath  the  lion,  alone  in  the  dark, 
And  side  by  side  let  us  sit,  my  dear, 
Breathing  the  beauty  as  an  atmosphere. . . . 

"We  will   talk  of  your  poets,  of  their  tales  of 

love. . . . 
What!     You   cannot   read?     Why,   you   never 

heard  then 

Of  your  Desdemona,  nor  the  daring  men 
Who  died  for  her  love?     My  poor  white  dove 
There's  a  story  of  Shy  lock  would  drive  you  wild. 
What!    never  have  heard  of  these  stories,  my 

child? 
Of  Tasso,  of   Petrarch?      Not  the   Bridge  of 

Sighs? 
Not  the  tale  of  Ferrara?     Nor  the  thousand 

whys 


230  A   DOVE    OF   ST.  MARK. 

That  your  Venice  was  ever  adored  above 
All  other  fair  lands  for  her  stories  of  love? 

"What  then  about  Shylock?    'Twasgold.  Yes — 

dead. 

The  lady?     'Twas  love Why,  yes;  she  too 

Is   dead.      And    Byron?      'Twas    fame.      Ah, 

true. . . . 

Tasso  and  Petrarch  ?  All  died  just  the  same 

Yea,  so  endeth  all,  as  you  truly  have  said. . . . 
And  you,  poor  girl,  are  too  wise;  and  you, 
Too  sudden  and  swift  in  your  hard,  hard  youth, 
Have  stumbled  face  fronting  an  obstinate  truth. 
For  whether  for  love,  for  gold,  or  for  fame, 
They  but  lived  their  day,  and  they  died  the 

same. 

"Let  us  talk  not  of  death:  of  death,  or  the  life 
That   comes   after   death.     'Tis   beyond   your 

reach, 
And   this  too  much   thought  has   a  sense  of 

strife .... 

Ay,  true;  I  promised  you  not  to  preach. . .. 
My  maid  of  Venice,  or  maid  unmade, 
Lie  still  on  my  bosom.     Be  not  afraid. 


A   DOVE    OF   ST.  MARK.  23! 

What!     Say  you  are  hungry?    Well,  let  us  dine 
Till  the  near  morn  comes  on  the  silver  shine 
Of  the  lamp-lit  sea.     At  the  dawn  of  day, 
My  pale  child-woman,  you  can  go  your  way. 

What!  You  have  a  palace?   I  know  your  town; 

Know  every  nook  of  it,  left  and  right, 

As  well  as  yourself.     For  up  and  far  down 

Your  salt-flood  streets,  lo!  many  a  night, 

I  have  row'd  and  have  roved  with  a  lady  as  fair 

As  the  face  of  heaven.     Nay,  I  know  well  there 

Is  no  such  a  palace.     What!  you  dare 

To  look  in  my  face  and  to  lie  outright, 

To  bend  your  brows,  and  to  frown  me  down? 

There  is  no  such  place  in  that  part  of  the  town! 

You  would  woo  me  away  to  your  rickety  boat! 
You  would  pick  my  pockets!  You  would  cut 

my  throat, 

With  help  of  your  pirates!  Then  throw  me  out 
Loaded  with  stones  to  sink  me  down, 
Down  into  the  filth  and  the  dregs  of  your  town! 
Why,  that  is  your  damnable  aim,  no  doubt! 
And,  beautiful  child,  you  seem  too  fair, 
Too  young,  for  even  a  thought  like  that; 


232  A    DOVE    OF   ST.  MARK. 

Too  young  for  even  black  sin  to  dare — 
Ay,  even  the  devil  to  whisper  at. 

"  Now,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  true 
Even  in  villany.     Listen  to  me: 
Black-skinn'd  women  and  low-brow'd  men, 
And  desperate  robbers  and  thieves;  and  then, 

Why,  there  are  the  pirates! Ay,  pirates 

reform'd — 

Pirates  reform'd  and  unreform'd: 
Pirates  for  me  girl,  friends  for  you, — 
And  these  are  your  neighbors.    And  so  you  see 

That  I  know  your  town,  your  neighbours:  and 
j 

Well,  pardon  me,  dear, — but  I  know  you  lie. 

"Tut. tut,  my  beauty!  What  trickery  now? 
Why,  tears  through  your  hair  on  my  hand  like 

rain! 

Come!  look  in  my  face:  laugh,  lie  again 
With  your  wonderful  eyes.     Lift  up  your  brow, 
Laugh  in  the  face  of  the  world,  and  lie! 
Now,  come!     This  lying  is  no  new  thing. 
As  well,  ay,  better,  than  you  or  I .... 
The  wearers  of  laces  know  well  how  to  lie. 


A    DOVE    OF    ST.  MARK.  233 

But  they  lie  for  fortune,  for  fame:  instead, 
You,  child  of  the  street,  only  lie  for  your  bread. 

...."Some  sounds  blow  in  from  the  distant 

land. 

The  bells  strike  sharp,  and  as  out  of  tune, 
Some  sudden,  short  notes.    To  the  east  and  afar, 
And  up  from  the  sea,  there  is  lifting  a  star 
As  large,  my  beautiful  child,  and  as  white 
And  as  lovely  to  see  as  my  lady's  white  hand. 
The  people  have  melted  away  with  the  night, 
And  not  one  gondola  frets  the  lagoon. 
See!  Away  to  the  land — 'tis  the  face  of  morn. 
Hear!    Away  to  the  sea — 'tis  the  fisherman's 

horn. 

"  'Tis  morn  in  Venice!  My  child,  adieu! 
Arise,  poor  beauty,  and  go  your  way; 
And  as  for  myself,  why,  much  like  you, 
I  shall  sell  this  story  to  who  will  pay 
And  dares  to  reckon  it  truthful  and  meet. 
Yea,  each  of  us  traders,  poor  child  of  pain; 
For  each  must  barter  for  bread  to  eat 
In  a  world  of  trade  and  an  age  of  gain; 
With  just  this  difference,  waif  of  the  street, 
You  sell  your  body,  I  sell  my  brain. 


234  A    DOVE    OF   ST.  MARK. 

"Poor  lost  little  vessel,  with  never  a  keel. 
Sore  soul,  what  a  wreck!     Lo,  here  you  reel, 
With  never  a  soul  to  advise  or  to  care: 
All  cover'd  with  sin  to  the  brows  and  hair, 
You  lie  like  a  seaweed,  well  a-strand. 
Blown  like  the  sea-kelp  hard  on  the  shale, 
A  half-drown'd  body,  with  never  a  hand 
Reach'd  out  to    help   where   you   quiver  and 

quail: 

Left  all  alone  so  to  starve  and  to  lie, 
And  to  sell  your  body  to  who  may  buy. 

"My  sister  of  sin,  I  will  kiss  you!     Yea, 

I  will  fold  you  and  hold  you  close  to  my  breast. 

And  as  you  lie  resting  in  your  first  rest, 

And  as  night  is  push'd  back   from  the  face  of 

day, 

I  will  push  your  heavy,  dark  heaven  of  hair 
Well  back  from  your  brow,  and  kiss  you  where 
Your  ruffian,  bearded,  black  men  of  crime 
Have  stung  you  and   stain'd   you   a  thousand 

time; 

I  call  you  my  sister,  sweet  child,  as  you  sleep, 
And  waken  you  not,  lest  you  wake  but  to  weep. 

"Yea,  tenderly  kiss,  and  I  shall  not  be 


A   DOVE   OF   ST.  MARK.  235 

Ashamed,    nor     stain'd     in   the   least,    sweet 

dove, — 

I  will  tenderly  kiss,  with  the  kiss  of  Love, 
And  of  Faith,  and  of  Hope,  and  of  Charity. 
Nay,  I  shall  be  purer  and  be  better  then; 
For,  child  of  the  street,  you,  living  or  dead, 
Stain'd  to  the  brows,  are  purer  to  me 
Ten  thousand  times  than  the  world  of  men, 
Who  reach    you    a    hand    but    to    lead    you 

astray. — 
But  the  dawn  is  upon  us!     Rise,  go  your  way. 

"Here!  take  this  money.     Take  it  and  say, 
When  you  have  well  waken'd  and  I   am  away, 
Roving  the  world  and  forgetful  of  you; 
When  you  have  aroused  from  your  brief  little 

rest, 
And  find  gold   eagles   nestled   down   in   your 

breast, 

And  rough  men  question  you, — why,  then  say 
That  Madonna   sent   them.     Then  kneel   and 

pray, 

And  pray  for  me,  the  worst  of  the  two: 
Then  God  will  bless  you,  sweet  child,  and  I 
Shall  be  the  better  when  I  come  to  die. 


236  A    DOVE    OF   ST.  MARK. 

"You  must  keep  this  money  and  buy  you  bread, 
And  eat  and  rest  while  a  year  wears  through. 
Then,  rising  refresh'd,  try  virtue  instead; 
Be  stronger  and  better,  poor,  pitful  dear, 
So  prompt  with  a  lie,  so  prompt  with  a  tear, 
For  the  hand  grows  stronger  as  the  heart  grows 

true. . . . 

Take  courage,  my  child,  for  I  promise  you 
We  are  judged  by  our  chances  of  life  and  lot; 
And  your  poor  little  soul  may  yet  pass  through 
The  eye  of  the  needle,  where  laces  shall  not. 

"Sad  dove  of  the  dust,  with  tear-wet  wings, 
Homeless  and  lone  as  the  dove  from  its  ark, — 
Do  you  reckon  yon  angel  that  tops  St.  Mark, 
That  tops  the  tower,  that  tops  the  town, 
If  he  knew  us  two,  if  he  knew  all  things, 
Would  say,  with  your  sins,  you  are  worse  than  I  ? 
Do  you  reckon  yon  angel,  now  looking  down 
And  down  like  a  star,  he  hangs  so  high, 
Could  tell  which  one  were  the  worst  of  us  two? 
Child  of  the  street — it  is  not  you! 

"If  we  two  were  dead,  and  laid  side  by  side 
Right  here  on  the  pavement,  this  very  day, 


A    DOVE    OF    ST.  MARK.  237 

Here  under  the  lion  and  over  the  sea, 
While  the  morn  flows  in  like  a  rosy  tide, 
And  the  sweet  Madonna  that  stands  in  the  moon, 
With  her  crown  of  stars,  just  across  the  lagoon, 
Should  come  and  should  look  upon  you  and 

me, — 

Do  you  reckon,  my  child,  that  she  would  decide 
As  men  do  decide  and  as  women  do  say, 
That  you  are  so  dreadful,  and  turn  away? 

"If  God's  angel  were  sent  to  choose  this  day 

Between  us  two  as  we  stand  here, 

Side  by  side  in  this  storied  place, — 

If  his  angel  were  sent  to  choose,  I  say, 

This  very  moment  the  best  of  the  two, 

You,  white  with  a  hunger  and  stain'd  with  a  tear, 

Or  I,  the  rover  the  wide  world  through, 

Restless  and  stormy  as  any  sea, — 

Looking  us  two  right  straight  in  the  face, 

Child  of  the  street,  he  would  not  choose  me. 

"The  fresh  sun  is  falling  on  turret  and  tower, 
The  far  sun  is  flashing  on  spire  and  dome, 
The  marbles  of  Venice  are  bursting  to  flower, 
The  marbles  of  Venice  are  flower  and  foam: 


238  A    DOVE    OF    ST.  MARK. 

O  child  of  the  street,  come  turn  you  now! 
There!  bear  my  kiss  on  your  beautiful  brow 
Through  earth  to  heaven:  and  when  we  meet 
Beyond  the  darkness,  poor  waif  of  the  street, 
Why,  then  I  shall  claim  you,  my  sad,  soiled  dove ; 
Shall  claim  you,  and  kiss  you,  with  the  kiss  of 
love." 


IL  CAPUCIN. 

ONLY  a  basket  for  fruits  or  bread 
And  the  bits  you  divide  with  your  dog, 

which  you 
Had  left  from  your  dinner.     The  round  year 

through 

He  never  once  smiles.     He  bends  his  head 
To  the  scorn  of  men.     He  gives  the  road 
i'o  the  grave  ass  groaning  beneath  his  load. 
He  is  ever  alone.     Lo!  never  a  hand 
Is  laid  in  his  hand  through  the  whole  wide  land, 
Save  when  a  man  dies,  and  he  shrives  him  home. 
And  that  is  the  Capucin  monk  of  Rome. 

He  coughs,  he  is  hump'd,  and  he  hobbles  about 
In  sandals  of  wood.     Then  a  hempen  cord 
Girdles  his  loathsome  gown.     Abhorr'd! 
Ay,  lonely,  indeed,  as  a  leper  cast  out. 
One  gown  in  three  years!  and — bah!  how  he 

smells! 

He  slept  last  night  in  his  coffin  of  stone, 
This  monk  that  coughs,  this  skin  and  bone, 


240  IL    CAPUCIN. 

This  living  corpse  from  the  damp,  cold  cells.— 
Go  ye  where  the  Pincian,  half-levell'd  down, 
Slopes  slow  to  the  south.  These  men  in  brown 
Have  a  monkery  there,  quaint,  builded  of  stone; 
And,  living  or  dead,  'tis  the  brown  men's  home, — 
These  dead  brown  monks  that  are  living  in 
Rome! 

You  will  hear  wood  sandals  on  the  sanded  floor; 
A  cough,  then  the  lift  of  a  latch,  then  the  door 
Groans  open,  and — horror!  Four  walls  of  stone 
Are  gorgeous  with  flowers  and  frescoes  of  bone! 
There  are  bones  in  the  corners  and  bones  on 

the  wall; 

And  he  barks  like  a  dog  that  watches  his  bone, 
This  monk  in  brown  from  his  bed  of  stone — 
He  barks,  and  he  coughs,  and  that  is  all. 
At  last  he  will  cough  as  if  up  from  his  cell; 
Then  strut  with  considerable  pride  about, 
And  lead  through  his  blossoms  of  bone,  and 

smell 

Their  odors;  then  talk,  as  he  points  them  out, 
Of  the  virtues  and  deeds  of  the  gents  who  wore 
The  respective  bones  but  the  year  before. 

Then  he  thaws  at  last,  ere  the  bones  are  through, 


IL    CAPUCIN.  241 

And  talks  and  talks  as  he  turns  them  about 
And  stirs  up  a  most  unsavory  smell; 
Yea,  talks  of  his  brown  dead  brothers,  till  you 
Wish  them,  as  they  are  no  doubt,  in — well, 
A  very  deep  well . . .  .And  that  may  be  why, 
As  he  shows  you  the  door  and  bows  good-bye, 
That  he  bows  so  low  for  a  franc  or  two, 
To  shrive  their  souls  and  to  get  them  out— 
These  bony  brown  men  who  have  their  home, 
Dead  or  alive,  in  their  cells  in  Rome. 

What  good  does  he  do  in  the  world?  Ah!  well, 
Now  that  is  a  puzzler ....  But,  listen!  He  prays. 
His  life  is  the  fast  of  the  forty  days. 
He  seeks  the  despised;  he  divides  the  bread 
That   he  begg'd  on  his  knees,   does  this  old 

shavehead. 

And  then,  when  the  thief  and  the  beggar  fell! 
And  then,  when  the  terrible  plague  came  down, 
Christ!  how  we  cried  to  these  men  in  brown 
When  other  men  fled!     Who  then  was  seen 
Stand  firm  to  the  death  but  the  Capucin? 


16 


242  SUNRISE    IN    VENICE. 


SUNRISE  IN  VENICE. 

NIGHT  seems  troubled  and  scarce  asleep; 
Her  brows  are  gather'd  in  broken  rest. 
A  star  in  the  east  starts  up  from  the  deep! 
Tis  morn,  new-born,  with  a  star  on  her  breast, 
White  as  my  lilies  that  grow  in  the  West! 
Hist!  men  are  passing  me  hurriedly. 
I  see  the  yellow,  wide  wings  of  a  bark, 
Sail  silently  over  my  morning-star. 
I  see  men  move  in  the  moving  dark, 
Tall  and  silent  as  columns  are; 
Great,  sinewy  men  that  are  good  to  see, 
With  hair  push'd  back,  and  with  open  breasts; 
Barefooted  fishermen,  seeking  their  boats, 
Brown  as  walnuts,  and  hairy  as  goats, — 
Brave  old  water-dogs,  wed  to  the  sea, 
First  to  their  labors  and  last  to  their  rests. 

Ships  are  moving!    I  hear  a  horn, — 
Answers  back,  and  again  it  calls. 
Tis  the  sentinel  boats  that  watch  the  town 
AU  night,  as  mounting  her  watery  walls, 


SUNRISE    IN    VENICE.  243 

And  watching  for  pirate  or  smuggler.    Down 

Over  the  sea,  and  reaching  away, 

And  against  the  east,  a  soft  light  falls, 

Silvery  soft  as  the  mist  of  morn, 

And  I  catch  a  breath  like  the  breath  of  day. 

The  east  is  blossoming!     Yea,  a  rose, 
Vast  as  the  heavens,  soft  as  a  kiss, 
Sweet  as  the  presence  of  woman  is, 
Rises  and  reaches,  and  widens  and  grows 
Large  and  luminous  up  from  the  sea, 
And  out  of  the  sea  as  a  blossoming  tree. 
Richer  and  richer,  so  higher  and  higher, 

Deeper  and  deeper  it  takes  its  hue; 
Brighter  and  brighter  it  reaches  through 
The  space  of  heaven  to  the  place  of  stars. 
Then  beams  reach  upward  as  arms  from  a  sea; 
Then  lances  and  arrows  are  aim'd  at  me. 
Then  lances  and  spangles  and  spars  and  bars 
Are  broken  and  shiver'd  and  strown  on  the  sea; 
And  around  and  about  me  tower  and  spire 
Start  from  the  billows  like  tongues  of  fire. 


244  A   GARIBALDIAN  S   STORY. 


A  GARIBALDIAN'S  STORY. 

<  £    A  Y,   signer,  that's  Nervi,  just  under  the 

/~\  lights 

That  look  down  from  the  forts  on  the  Genoese 

heights; 

And  that  stone  set  in  stone  in  the  rim  of  the  sea, 
Like  a  tall  figure  rising  and  reaching  a  hand, 
Marks  the  spot  where  the  Chief  and  his  red- 

shirted  band 

Hoistedsail Havealight?  Ah, yes!  asforme 

I  have  lights,  and  a  leg — short  a  leg,  as  you  see; 
And  have  three  fingers  hewn  from  this  strong 

sabre-hand. 

"Look  you  there!  Do  you  see  where  the  blue 
bended  floors 

Of  the  heavens  are  fresco'd  with  stars?  Sec 
the  heights, 

Then  the  bent  hills  beneath,  where  the  grape- 
growers'  doors 

Open  out  and  look  down  in  a  crescent  of 
lights? 


A  GARIBALDIAN'S  STORY.  245 

Well,  there  I  was  born;  grew  tall.     Then   the 

call 

For  bold  men  for  Sicily.     I  rose  from  the  vines, 
Shook  back  my  long  hair,   look'd    forth,   then 

let  fall 
My  dull  pruning-hook,   and  stood  up  in  the 

lines. 
Then  my  young  promised  bride  held  her  head 

to  her  breast 
As  a   sword   trail'd   the  stones,  and   I    strode 

with  a  zest. 
But  a  sable-crowl'd  monk   girt   his    gown,   and 

look'd  down 
With  a  leer  in  her  face,  as   I  turned  from  the 

town. 

"Then  from  yonder  green  hills  bending  down 

to  the  seas, 
Grouping  here,   grouping    there,    in   the    grey 

olive  trees, 

We  watch'd  the  slow  sun;  slow  saw  him  retire 
At  last  in  the  sea,  like  a  vast  isle  of  fire. 
Then  the  Chief  drew  his  sword:  there  was  that 

in  his  air, 
As  the  care  on  his  face  came  and  went   and 

still  came, 


246  A   GAR  I  BALD  I  AN 'S   STORY. 

As  he  gazed  out  at  sea,  and  yet  gazed  any- 
where, 

That  meant  more,  signor,  more  than  a  peasant 
can  say. 

Then  at  last,  when  the  stars  in  the  soft- 
tempered  breeze 

Glow'd  red  and  grew  large,  as  if  fann'd  to  a 
flame, 

Lo!  something  shot  up  from  a  black-muffled 
ship 

Deep  asleep  in  the  bay,  like  a  star  gone  astray: 

Then  down,  double  quick,  with  the  sword-hilt 
a-trip, 

Came  the  troop  with  a  zest,  and — that  stone 
tells  the  rest. 

"Hot  times  at  Marsala!  and  then  under  Rome 
It  was  hell,  sure  enough,  and  a  whole  column 

fell 
Like  new  vines  in  a  frost.     Then  year  follow'd 

year, 

Until,  stricken  and  sere,  at  last  I  came  home — 
As  the  strife  lull'd  a  spell,  came  limping  back 

here — 
Stealing  back  to  my  home,  limping  up  out  of 

hell, 


A  GARIBALDIAN'S  STORY.  247 

But  we  won,  did   we  not?     Won,    I    scarcely 

know  what — 
Yet  the  whole  land  is  free  from  the  Alps  to  the 

sea — 
Ah!  my  young  promised  bride?     Christ!    that 

cuts!     Why,  I  thought 
That  her  face  had  gone  by,  like  a  dream  that 

was  not. 

....  "Yes,  peaches  must  ripen   and  show  the 

sun's  red, 

In  their  time,  I  suppose,  like  the  full  of  a  rose, 
And  some  one  must  pluck  them;  that's  very 

well  said, 
As  they  swell  and  grow  rich  and  look  luscious 

to  touch: 
Yet  I  fancy  some  men,  some  fiends,  must  have 

much 

To  repent  of:  this  reaching  up  rudely  of  hand 
For  the  early  sweet  fruits  of  a  warm,  careless 

land; 

This  plucking  and  biting  of  every  sweet  peach 
Ere  yet  it  be  ripe  and  come  well  to  its  worth, 
Then  casting  it  down,  and  quite  spoil'd,  to  the 

reach 


248  A  GARIBALDIAN'S  STORY. 

Of  .the  swine  and  the  things  that  creep  close  to 
the  earth .... 

"But  he  died!     Look  you  here.     Stand  aside. 

Yes,  he  died 

Like  a  dog  in  a  ditch.     In  that  low  battle-moat 
He  was  found  on  a  morn.     The  red  line  on  his 

throat 
They  said  was  a  rope.     '  Bah!  the  one-finger'd 

man 
Might  have  done  it,'  said  one.     Then  I  laugh'd 

till  I  cried 
When  the  guard  led  me  forth,  and  the  judge 

sat  to  scan 
My  hands  and  my  strength,  and  to  question  me 

sore: 
'Why,  what  has  the  match-man  to  do  with  all 

this,— 

The  one-finger'd  man,  with  his  life  gone  amiss?' 

1  cried  as  I  laugh'd,  and  they  vex'd  me  no  more. 

***** 

"Some  men  must  fill  trenches.     Ten  thousand 

go  down 
As  unnamed  and  unknown  as  the  stones  in  a 

wall, 


A  GARIBALDIAN'S  STORY.  249 

For  the  few  to  pass  over  and  on  to  renown: 
And  I  am  of  these.    The  old  king  has  his  crown, 
And  my  country  is  free;  and  what  more,  after  all, 
Did  I  ask  from  the  first?     Don't  you  think  that 

yon  lights 
Through  the  black  olive  trees  look  divine  on 

the  seas? 
Then  look  you  above,  where  the  Appennines 

bend: 
Why,  you  scarcely  can  tell,  as  you  peer  through 

the  trees, 
Where  the  great  stars  begin  or  the  cottage-lights 

end! 

"Yes,  a  little  bit  lonely,  that  can't  be  denied: 
But  as  good  place  to  wait  for  a  sign  as  may  be. 
I  shall  watch  on  the  shore,  looking  out  as  before; 
And  the  Chief  on  his  isle  in  the  calm  middle  sea, 
With  his  sword  gather'd  up,  stands  waiting  with 

me 
For  the  great  silent  ship.    We  shall  cross  to  the 

shore 

Where  a  white  city  lies  like  yon  Alps  in  the  skies, 
And  look    down   on  this  sea;    and  right  well 

satisfied. 


250  SIROCCO. 

"Have  a  light,  sir,  to-night?  Ah,  thanks,  signer, 

thanks! 
Bon  voyage,  bon  voyage!     Bless  you  and  your 

francs." 


SIROCCO. 

THERE    were    black    clouds    crossing  the 
Alps,  and  they 

Roll'd  straight  upon  Venice.     Then  far  away, 
As  if  catching  new  breath  and  gathering  strength 
In  the  /Egean  hills,  on  the  pall  of  the  day, 
Stood  the  terrible  Thunder.    Then  hip  and  thigh 

He  smote  all  heaven,  and  the  lightning  leapt 
Like  red  swords  thrust  through  the  Night  full 

length- 
Ay!  thrust  through  the  black  heart  of  Night  as 

he  slept! 

Then  ribbon  and  skein  kept  threading  the  sky; 
Then,  ere  you  scarcely  had  time  to  think, 
The  sea  lay  darkling  and  black  as  ink. 

Then  many  a  sail,  tri-colored,  and  crpss'd 
By  the  lone,  sad  cross  of  Calvary, 


COMO.  251 

Drove  by  us  and  dwindled  to  blinding  specks; 
Drove  straight  in  the  grinning  white  teeth  of 

the  sea, 

Like  lonesome  spirits,  forlorn  and  lost. 
Then  a  ship  with  my  stars  of  the  West!  and 

then 

There  were  golden  crescents,  tall  turban'd  men 
All  silent  and  devil-like,  keeping  the  decks; 
Then  hearse-like  gondolas  hurried  about, 
As  if  sniffing  the  storm  with  their  lifted  snout. 


T 


COMO. 

HE  red-clad  fishers  row  and  creep 
Below  the  crags,  as  half  asleep, 
Nor  ever  make  a  single  sound. 

The  walls  are  steep, 

The  waves  are  deep; 
And  if  a  dead  man  should  be  found 
By  these  same  fishers  in  their  round, 
Why,  who  shall  say  but  he  was  drown'd? 


The  lakes  lay  bright  as  bits  of  broken  moon 
Just  newly  set  within  the  cloven  earth; 


252  COMO. 

The  ripen'd  fields  drew  round  a  golden  girth 
Far  up  the  steeps,  and  glittered  in  the  noon; 
And  when  the  sun  fell  down,  from  leafy  shore 
Fond  lovers  stole  in  pairs  to  ply  the  oar. 
The  stars,  as  large  as  lilies,  fleck'd  the  blue; 
From  out  the  Alps  the  moon  came  wheeling 

through 
The  rocky  pass  the  great  Napoleon  knew. 

A  gala  night  it  was, — the  season's  prime. 
We  rode  from  castled  lake  to  festal  town, 
To  fair  Milan — my  friend  and  I;  rode  down 
By  night,  where  grasses  waved  in  rippled  rhyme: 
And  so,  what  theme  but  love  at  such  a  time? 
His  proud  lip  curl'd  the  while  with  silent  scorn 
At  thought  of  love;  and  then,  as  one  forlorn, 
He  sigh'd;  then  bared  his  temples,  dash'd  with 

grey; 
Then  mock'd,  as  one  outworn  and  well  blase, 

A  gorgeous  tiger  lily,  flaming  red, — 
So  full  of  battle,  of  the  trumpet's  blare, 
Of  old-time  passion, — uprear'd  its  head. 
I  gallop'dpast.     I  lean'd,  I  clutch'd  it  there 
From  out  the  long,  strong  grass.  I  held  it  high, 


COMO.  253 

And  cried:  "  Lo!   this  to-night  shall  deck  her 

hair 
Through  all  the  dance.      And  mark!  the  man 

shall  die 

Who  dares  assault,  for  good  or  ill  design, 
The  citadel  where  I  shall  set  this  sign." 

O,  she  shone  fairer  than  the  summer  star, 
Or  curl'd  sweet  moon  in  middle  destiny; 
More  fair  than  sun-morn  climbing  up  the  sea, 

Where  all  the  loves  of  Adriana  are 

Who  loves,  who  truly  loves,  will  stand  aloof: 
The  noisy  tongue  makes  most  unholy  proof 

Of  shallow  passion All  the  while  afar 

From  out  the  dance  I  stood  and  watch'd  my 

star, 
My  tiger  lily  borne  an  oriflamme  of  war. 

Adown  the  dance  she  moved  with  matchless 
grace. 

The  world — my  world — moved  with  her.  Sud- 
denly 

I  question'd  whom  her  cavalier  might  be? 

'Twas  he!  His  face  was  leaning  to  her  face! 


254  COMO. 

I  clutch'd  my  blade;   I  sprang;   I   caught  my 

breath, — 

And  so,  stood  leaning  cold  and  still  as  death. 
And  they  stood  still.     She  blush'd,  then  reach'd 

and  tore 

The  lily  as  she  pass'd,  and  down  the  floor 
She  strew'd  its  heart  like  jets  of  gushing  gore. . 

'Twas  lie  said  heads,  not  hearts,  were  made  to 

break: 

He  taught  me  this  that  night  in  splendid  scorn. 
I  learn'd  too  well The  dance  was  done.  Ere 

morn 

We  mounted — he  and  I — but  no  more  spake .... 
And  this  for  woman's  love!  My  lily  worn 
In  her  dark  hair  in  pride,  to  then  be  torn 
And    trampled    on,    for  this    bold   stranger's 

sake!. . . . 

Two  men  rode  silent  back  toward  the  lake; 
Two  men  rode  silent  down — but  only  one 
Rode  up  at  morn  to  meet  the  rising  sun. 

THE  END. 


u'  249072  4 


